Inconvenient Heritage
by chappysmom
Summary: The other man tilted his head, eyes sharp. "You're very loyal, very quickly, Dr Watson … or should I say Lord Undershaw?" (Part 6 of the Heritage Series of AUs.)
1. Chapter 1

Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

This is the sixth story in my "Heritage" series—where I take one fact, change it, and then watch as it alters every aspect of the story. In all of them, John is the grandson of an earl but is still an invalided-home army-doctor who decides to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

What if John were already an Earl when he met Sherlock Holmes?

#

* * *

#

John limped up the street, leaning hard on his cane and trying not to think about what he'd just seen.

Corpses weren't exactly new to him, of course. He was a doctor, after all, and had spent most of his career in the army where he dealt with bodies in much worse condition than the lady dressed in pink had been. He thought that must have been the problem, really. She had looked so … untouched. Elegantly dressed, clean, no obvious wounds or blood. Just … dead.

That was probably the problem, he thought to himself. It had been a while since he'd experienced a death caused by something other than gross bodily trauma. Poison was vicious, but most of its damage was internal. The pink lady might almost have been sleeping.

He hadn't expected to be faced with death tonight. He had thought he was merely checking out a flat.

Not that that wasn't somewhat ridiculous of him. It wasn't that he didn't have somewhere else to go. He just wasn't quite ready to admit he was home yet. More specifically, home and broken.

Not to forget the intriguing flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. John had been sceptical last night on finding the man's website, but having seen him in action? Well, maybe you really could tell an airline pilot from his left thumb, because the information about the dead woman he had seemingly pulled from thin air was astounding. That on top of the deductions about John in the taxi … well, he was intrigued.

Or, he had been, he thought, right up until the git abandoned him in the middle of a crime scene and left him to walk home. He didn't think the intent had been malicious, though. Sherlock obviously was used to working alone. You could tell that by the way he treated the officers at the crime scene—and how they treated him. No, John thought that Sherlock had sped away on the wind of inspiration and simply hadn't remembered he'd brought his potential flatmate along on what was turning out to the be oddest flatmate interview John had ever experienced. Clearly playing the violin and not talking for days were _not_ Sherlock's worst faults.

He shook his head as he trudged along. How had he come to this? Shot and invalided home and then abandoned on the side of the road like an unwanted dog. Life certainly did play its tricks.

Which was when the phones began to ring.

#

"Have a seat, John," said the elegant man leaning on an umbrella, as if holding up every stereotype of an English gentleman.

"I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but you could have just phoned me. On my phone," John told him, not fazed at all by the act. His grandfather had been a master at it. He wondered if this man had known him, or maybe his father. Maybe he worked for the estate? Though practically abducting John off the street wasn't exactly the best way to introduce himself, if that were true.

Still, he expected this had something to do with his family or the responsibility he was shirking, so he was surprised when the man said, "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down," John said automatically, even as he hid his surprise. This was to do with Sherlock? But then, why should that surprise him?

"You don't seem very afraid."

John thought the man sounded almost disappointed as he said, "You don't seem very frightening."

A smile at that. "Ah, yes, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

As they bantered back and forth, part of John relaxed, just a little. If all of this was about Sherlock, then it really had nothing to do with him—flatmate or not. Nothing to do with his own family or duties undischarged.

The texts he started receiving from Sherlock just added a surreal element to the bizarre scene—verbally holding off the Mystery Stereotype Man while being quizzed about the very person sending messages to his phone.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked finally.

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"It really couldn't," John told him, voice level. "And anyway, why would you care?"

"I worry about him. Constantly."

John almost laughed. No, no. That didn't sound stalkerish at all. "That's nice of you."

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned," the man continued, inspecting the tip of his umbrella. "We have what you might call a difficult relationship."

"I wonder why," John said, "I mean, other than you kidnapping his flatmate off the street. Do you make a habit of that?"

The other man tilted his head, eyes sharp. "You're very loyal, very quickly, Dr Watson … or should I say Lord Undershaw?"

Damn it, thought John. How did he know that? He had worked so hard to keep his army-doctor persona separate from his inherited title. He kept his face still, though as he just watched the man, so certain he had hit a nerve. After a pause, almost as if surprised at John's lack of reaction, the man asked, honest curiosity on his face, "Why keep it a secret?"

"If we're going to be confiding secrets, perhaps you should start by telling me your name," said John pointedly. "But, no, don't bother. If you had expected cooperation, you would have arranged a more … amenable … introduction."

The taller man just blinked almost lazily down at him. "Yet it can be so informative, watching people react to an unfamiliar environment."

John lifted his eyebrows in the tiniest semblance of a nod. "Maybe, but it also sets the scene for the kind of relationship you expect to have. Tea at the Ritz would have been extreme, perhaps, but this isn't a warzone. If you'd wanted my help, you could have arranged this meeting any number of civilized ways that could have kept your anonymity. So, are we done?"

"You tell me."

For a brief moment, John wanted to ask how the man had known about the title. He had joined the army under his mother's name and had managed to keep his family a secret from his army mates. When his father had died several years ago, he had even managed to keep his day job out of the news—so far as anyone knew, Dr John Watson was an entirely different person than Sir John Brandon, Lord Undershaw. He wasn't even sure his sister knew the whole truth. So how had this unknown man found out?

Though he supposed the trick with the CCTV cameras did give a hint.

So, no, this was not a conversation he was willing to continue. If the man with the umbrella were truly concerned about his association with Sherlock, well, he'd have to say so straight out.

Giving a brief nod, John turned and started to walk back to the car.

He had only managed three steps when the man spoke. "How do you expect Sherlock will react when he learns of your title, Lord Undershaw?"

"I don't see that it's any of your business," John gritted out through his teeth.

"Perhaps, but I don't believe he'll see it that way. Judging by your left hand, you don't, either."

"My what?"

"Show me," the man said as he stepped closer, just enough to examine John's hand. "Remarkable."

John snatched it back. "What is?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

Now that did surprise John. "Who the hell are you? How do you know that?"

"Fire her," he was told. "She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."

There was another pause, then the man leaned forward as confiding in him. "You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. If anything, you miss it. No, your personal spectre is the heritage you choose to ignore … but you can only ignore it for so long. And when it comes time to face it, you should ask yourself if Sherlock Holmes is going to forgive the deception." He gave another smirk of a smile and then turned to walk away, twirling his umbrella. "Dr. Watson or Lord Undershaw? It's time to choose a side."

#

John felt numb in the car on the way back. What the hell had just happened?

Either Sherlock was being stalked by a control-freak with an extraordinarily high clearance level or … he didn't even know what the "or" could be.

That someone with a certain amount of power would be interested in Sherlock, he could well believe. In the short amount of time he'd spent with the man, his intelligence had been staggeringly obvious. Sherlock was gifted, and it was no surprise that the government would be interested in tracking him—hopefully out of a desire to be protective, not because Sherlock was a criminal of some kind, he thought.

Because the fact that Stereotype Man had known that John was in fact the Earl of Undershaw as well as ex-army doctor John Watson was staggering in its own right. It's not like one was a secret identity, not exactly, but the two identities had nothing in common. It would not be easy to draw a connection, yet this man had managed it in twenty-four hours, assuming he started when John met Sherlock at Barts yesterday. He'd even gotten his therapist's notes, for heaven's sake.

John almost didn't want to know if all that information had been gathered just since meeting Sherlock at Baker Street at 7:00 tonight.

No, the fact that this … person … had made those connections so quickly and was obviously interested in Sherlock's movements was … worrying.

Really, he thought these were more complications than he really needed in his life right now. If he truly wanted to stay in London without alerting the family, it wasn't like he didn't have funds to pay for a good hotel, much less the dreary bedsit the army provided. It wasn't money that was the issue.

No, the issue was that John wasn't yet ready to face his family. They would be upset enough to hear that he had spent the last 15 years in the army without their knowing, but that he had been shot? Nearly killed?

He wasn't ready to face that. John wasn't a coward, but there was something about the endless explanations that terrified him. He might have been raised with a knowledge of obligations and an awareness that certain aspects of his life could be of public interest (if only because of the glamour of the title), but there was a difference between a public appearance or a few photos and endless family debates about all the things he had kept quiet these fifteen years—up to and including the bullet.

That was the whole point behind keeping to himself right now. He needed time to get his bearings, time to recover … physically, yes, but mentally as well. He had been keeping in touch via email and the occasional Skype call just like he had for years. He hadn't let his responsibilities suffer. He was just … keeping his distance.

Except the problem with keeping his distance was that it was lonelier than he was used to. Along with the PTSD-like after-effects of being shot, he was just so damned tired of being alone. The idea of a decent flat and an amenable flatmate had appealed not only financially but for the sake of the company. He would be able to get used to something like a normal life without having to alert the relatives that he was in London. So far as they knew, he more or less permanently travelled.

He wondered what it said about him that he, the Earl, was essentially hiding from his various aunts and cousins. Wasn't he supposed to be the head of the family?

It was temporary, he reminded himself. He had promised himself that he'd leave the army once the title came to him and had already known this last tour was going to be his last … he just hadn't expected to be leaving wounded.

It would look bad, for the Earl to be a limping, haunted man. People would ask questions. His past would be dug up and people would be suspicious about his motives, why he had kept it quiet. They would never accept the obvious answer that knowledge of his title would have affected his doing his job.

He was better off, he told himself for the hundredth time, healing first, getting back on his feet, before heading home. And, anyway, he had spent so little time at Undershaw, much less the London house, it's not like they felt much like home.

Oddly enough, the little, crowded flat on Baker Street had felt more like home than anyplace he'd been to in years.

Still—Stereotype Man added a complication he didn't need. It would probably be wisest to let the car drop him at the bedsit and leave it at that.

Except … Sherlock's text had said it could be dangerous.

Damn it.

#


	2. Chapter 2

(Note: Wow, so many really enthusiastic comments! I'm so happy you're all so excited about this!)

* * *

John leaned against the wall and didn't even try to supress his giggle. (A giggle! As if he were a 13-year old girl.) That had seriously been the most fun he'd had in ages—since long before he'd been shot. Could it really have been years since he'd cut loose and done something for the sheer fun of it?

And it hadn't been until Angelo showed up with his cane that he realized he'd done it all on his own two feet.

But then Mrs Hudson was there and Sherlock was up the stairs. The whole bloody police force was spread through the flat on the most specious of excuses—really, a drugs bust? All while Jennifer Wilson's case was sitting right there and DI Lestrade lounged in a chair as if he had all the confidence in the world they'd find something.

John didn't miss the warning look Sherlock gave him when he protested. (All while he reeled at the thought of his new friend drowning that vivid brilliance under the fog of drugs.) What he did know, though, was that this was inappropriate police behaviour, no matter what the circumstances. Even on his short acquaintance with Sherlock, he could understand Lestrade's "I'm dealing with a child" response to Sherlock's complaint. He could understand that—unusual as Sherlock's methods were, it would take unusual tactics to deal with him. As long as this fiasco didn't go as far as actual charges, well … John hadn't spent most of his adult life dealing with the army's finest coming to grips with their own mortality without learning that adults were often just tall, burly children, and that unorthodox actions somehow needed to be taken.

Still … if he was going to be moving in, this wasn't something he could afford to let happen again. There would be paperwork he couldn't let the Yard see, not if he wanted to keep his title a secret. And, more importantly, he couldn't risk his own name (either of them) getting into anything like a police or press report that mentioned a drugs bust.

"Do you have a warrant?" he asked, keeping his tone as mild as possible.

Lestrade gave him a sharp look, though John wasn't sure whether it was because he had interrupted his fun or because of the question itself. "And that's your business why, exactly?"

"Well, before I move my stuff in, I'd like to be sure this isn't a regular occurrence—certainly not one without valid cause. My reputation as a doctor will be totally shot if regular drugs busts start happening at my flat. Even if—or especially if—they're primarily a means of applying pressure to my flatmate," John said.

"Flatmate," said the detective flatly.

"It's why I was here earlier," John said, "You know, when you stopped by to beg Sherlock for his help—when you came without all your friends. I was taking a look at the flat."

"And you really are a doctor?"

John lifted his eyebrow. "Dr John Watson. Would you like some ID?"

"Er … no. Not right now," Lestrade said as Anderson and Donovan stared at them from the kitchen.

"Then maybe you could stop the hunt so we can all talk like civilized people?" John suggested. "I'm sure Sherlock would be happy to tell you what he's found out since that was the original point of getting involved, right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was barely containing a grin of delight as he watched John much like a proud owner when their dog did something clever. (John decided he would examine that analogy later.) He had regained his equilibrium, though, as most of the officers filed out and down the stairs, leaving just the five of them as Lestrade explained who Rachel was. Had been. Jennifer Wilson's still-born daughter.

"Why would she still be upset?" asked Sherlock, and then froze as the he found himself the object of shocked stares. "Not good?" he asked John quietly.

"Bit not good, yeah," John said, trying to lend some verbal support, and—contrary to what Donovan and Anderson expected—finding himself more sympathetic than before. As if it hadn't already been obvious, it was clear that Sherlock was not a "people person." His grasp of details was astounding, but his understanding of how people interacted? John got the impression Sherlock's mother had taught him some basic manners, but never bothered to explain that they're meant to be used with everyone.

So, really, when Sherlock had run out the door and John realized exactly where Jennifer Wilson's phone was and that Sherlock had waltzed right out the door as if a serial killer was nothing … well, of course John had to follow.

It felt more like the army than he could believe, except for the complete absence of a string of command. It was impossible to get through to Lestrade. He had no means of contacting Sherlock because the man wasn't answering his texts. All he could hope was that the mobile signal on the netbook wouldn't disappear while he tried to direct the taxi to … wherever the hell they were going.

He was beginning to see why Stereotype Man was so concerned about Sherlock. Depending on his point of view, Sherlock could be seen as a menace or as a danger to himself. Either way, as John raced through the halls, part of him that longed for this kind of excitement every day … assuming he was able to save the git's life.

Part of him, though, knew it wasn't possible. It wouldn't be responsible to take these kinds of risks every day. It had been bad enough that he'd joined the army (even though the RAMC should have been completely safe). It had been bad enough he'd been shot. Bad enough that tonight alone he'd been abandoned, kidnapped, almost hit by a car, had risked his neck jumping across roofs, and was now actively trying to find a serial killer. Because now, unlike when he'd joined the army, he was a full-fledged earl and had capital-O Obligations that he couldn't ignore. It wasn't like he had an heir of his own waiting in line.

Which was why, when all was said and done, he headed off to get Chinese with Sherlock all while trying to think of ways to say he really couldn't do this.

Much as he wanted to.

Because, really, it was obvious that moving in with Sherlock Holmes was the furthest thing from what he'd envisioned—a quiet flatshare for some company while he got his feet under him again. An interlude before he moved across town to his waiting house and took up his responsibilities, putting aside his adrenalin addiction and army history like he had put away his teddy bear when he was six, or toy trucks when he was eleven. He just wanted one more intermission before he finally had to grow up altogether, putting childish things aside.

If it were up to him, he would move in with Sherlock in a heartbeat. The man was fascinating and living with him would clearly never be boring.

But John was not simply ex-army doctor John Watson. He was Sir John Brandon, Lord Undershaw, and some choices—some risks—were simply out of his control.

A conclusion that was only reinforced moments later as he watched Sherlock exchanging words with Stereotype Man. The mystery arch-enemy from the warehouse who turned out to be Sherlock's _brother_.

And John thought he and Harry had a bad relationship. At least he didn't spy on her, and he'd never once kidnapped Clara to try to find out her intentions. Because, really, who did that? Well, Mycroft Holmes, apparently … and Good Lord Above, what on earth had their parents been thinking? Sherlock and Mycroft? They certainly weren't names that let you fade into the background. Not for the first time, John blessed his parents for sensible traditional names—John might be one of the most common names around, but at least he didn't get people blinking in confusion whenever he said his name. Because, honestly, Mycroft was even worse than Sherlock…

Wait. Mycroft Holmes. Why did that sound familiar?

Sherlock made one last cutting remark about wars and traffic and stormed off, while John lingered. "Brother?"

"He's always been so difficult. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

No, John really didn't think he could. "Your father was Siger Holmes, right? Our fathers knew each other, you know."

Mycroft lifted one elegant eyebrow. "Really?"

"Mm. He helped with my paperwork to enrol at Uni under my mother's name. I hadn't realized the family connection."

"Sherlock's reaction to that should be entertaining, at least," said Mycroft.

"If it comes up," John said with a shrug.

His casual gesture was apparently eloquent, though, because Mycroft's gaze sharpened as he said, "You're not moving in."

John shook his head. "It's too much of a risk. It would be irresponsible."

"But you saved his life tonight."

"I did, and I'm glad to have done. Life with Sherlock would never be dull…" His voice drifted off as he watched Sherlock stride away. "But I spent the last fifteen years risking my life, and things have changed. I have obligations that I might be ignoring, but that I can't set aside."

Mycroft just watched him, blinking slowly like he had at the warehouse. His eyes were just as sharp as his brother's, but the energy was contained, camouflaged. "And they are incompatible with sharing a flat with Sherlock?"

"It would be dangerous," John said, even as part of him yearned for that adrenalin rush.

"When you choose it to be, perhaps," Mycroft said. "I'm sure the flatshare agreement would not require your helping Sherlock on cases. You needn't risk yourself."

"And yet, I was doing nothing but walking along the street tonight when I was kidnapped," John reminded him, feeling a sense of satisfaction as the words hit home. "The risk seems to be there whether I want it or not."

"And what do you risk if you do not take him up on his offer?" Mycroft asked him. "A return of your limp? Days of dreary paperwork—because I do know how dreary that can be."

It sounded even worse hearing it spelled out. "It's an obligation, not a holiday. I've had my fun, but now it's time to buckle down to work."

Mycroft sniffed. "In your bedsit? Or in your family home? It seems to me that you've already outstripped one and the other you're not quite ready for. Would an interim flatshare be such a risk?"

"You're just trying to talk me into being your brother's bodyguard," John said.

"Hardly," Mycroft said. "I'm trying to make sure you know the choices available."

"I'm not a child, Mr Holmes. Nor am I an idiot. But I can't ignore my obligations for much longer—and if I move in with Sherlock, I won't be able … I just can't."

The man was staring at him, looking very genteelly stunned. "You believe you will like living with Sherlock too _much_."

"Yes," John told him with a nod, all while suppressing a sympathetic twinge for Sherlock, that his own brother would find it so hard to believe someone would enjoy his company. John wasn't blind. He could see the man was difficult, that he would be a challenging flatmate, but he was … John couldn't even think of the words. Brilliant. Not in the everyday way everyone used the word, to mean 'good job' or 'glad to hear it.' Sherlock was _brilliant_ as in sparkling and bright and blinding. He would leave blinding headaches in his wake (ulcers too, probably), but oh, what a ride. This had been one of the best nights John could remember, and the idea of continuing this, having more days and evenings filled with this kind of excitement and challenge … it was too tempting to bear.

So to hear Mycroft sounding so sceptical about his own brother … John just shook his head. In a way, this was breaking his heart. All that promise, that bright friendship beckoning, and he had to walk away. He felt like he was abandoning Sherlock even though that was clearly ridiculous. He'd known the man less than 24 hours, after all. He'd be fine. They'd both be fine.

"Dr Watson," Mycroft said, calling him back as John turned away. "Sometimes we're tempted not because something is wrong, but because it's right."

John met the man's eyes and nodded. He knew what the man was trying to do—he couldn't even blame him. he wouldn't want to turn away a possible friend for Harry, either. That's what big brothers did, after all. Just, in this case … well, John wasn't as free to make his own life decisions as he might like.

And so with a nod, he turned back toward the blinding flame that was Sherlock Holmes, hoping to fill his senses with brilliance before trudging back into the grey dullness of familial obligations.

#

"What were you and Mycroft talking about?"

John pushed the beef and broccoli around his dish. "Temptation."

Even without raising his eyes, he could see Sherlock's eyebrows lift. "Indeed. And has my dear brother found the right means with which to tempt you?"

John forced his lips into a smile but didn't look up. "It's not your brother who's tempting me."

He could almost feel Sherlock's gaze boring through his head. "You're not moving in," he said, voice breathless, unsupported. "Something's changed. What changed? What did Mycroft _do?_"

"It's not Mycroft … and good God, what were your parents thinking when they named the two of you? I just … there are … damn it."

He fully expected Sherlock to burst out in frustration then, but the man restrained himself. In fact, he seemed more in control of himself than John felt. "What happened, John?"

"You were right about a lot of things, Sherlock, but you were wrong about one thing—well, two, if you count Harry being my sister. But, I do have an extended family who … well, I'm not close to them, exactly, but it's not that we don't care about each other. I just … I haven't been ready to face them yet."

"Because of your injury," Sherlock said—very much a statement, not a question.

John tipped his head in a not-quite-nod. "And the explanations … most of them didn't know I was even in the army, so … coming home not only without a job but … broken … I've been avoiding the confrontations."

Sherlock huffed. "If your family is remotely like mine, I can understand that. But why would that change your moving in with me? _What did Mycroft say to you?_"

John held up his hand, chopstick still holding a tree of broccoli. "Nothing. It wasn't your brother, Sherlock. Christ, the two of you are worse than me and Harry, aren't you? No, he was trying to convince me to change my mind and stay." He popped the vegetable in his mouth, buying himself some time while chewing.

Sherlock didn't wait, though. He drew himself up stiffly, just like he had earlier at Angelo's. "Of course. I understand, John, and I applaud your resistance to Mycroft's machinations. By all means, if you choose not to move in…"

"No," John cut in. "No, that's not it, Sherlock. The problem is _my_ family, not yours. We have … I need to … I can't hide from them forever, and once they find out I'm back in London … _Damn it_." He dropped the chopsticks and shifted back in his chair, catching his breath before leaning back in. "The problem isn't that I don't want to move in. It's that I'm not going to be able to stay for long, Sherlock. There are things I'm going to need to do and it seems worse for both of us—me, anyway—if I move in now only to have to leave in a couple of months."

Sherlock looked unconvinced. "Indeed. I hadn't realized you'd only planned to stay for such a short time … not that I usually expect much else from my flatmates, you understand, but they tend not to plan ahead quite so … advertently as you. It's more a spontaneous decision, usually accompanied by shouting."

John could almost see the other man pulling away, even though his posture didn't change at all. For a moment, John thought it was for the best, this would be easier for both of them, but something in Sherlock's eyes changed his mind. "You think I'm saying this because I don't want to live with you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Don't worry, John. You're hardly the first one."

"I didn't save your life tonight because I was tired of spending time with you, Sherlock," John told him pointedly. "Quite the contrary. I can't think of anything I'd enjoy more. Tonight has been … it's been…" His voice stalled there as he tried to find the words. "I've had more fun tonight than I can remember, but that's the problem, you see. If I let myself move to Baker Street, maybe start following you on cases … I'm not going to be able to tear myself away. Except I'll have to, because I can't hide from my family forever, and it'll be harder to leave then. It's hard enough now."

And that was way more sentiment than any English gentleman should ever utter aloud, thought John. Not without copious amounts of alcohol, at least, or being on one's deathbed. He could almost feel the earth rumbling as all his ancestors rolled over in their graves.

Sherlock, meanwhile, looked utterly shocked. "You _want_ to move in."

"Yes, Sherlock. Obviously." John couldn't help the small grin at throwing one of Sherlock's favourite words back at him.

"You're worried you'll like it _too much_."

"Again, yes. That's what I've been saying."

"But you won't be able to stay because of … your family?"

John nodded. "That sums it up, yeah. It's bad enough I've been risking my life in the army all these years, but now … I just can't anymore. There are things I need to do, that I've put off for too long."

There was a spark in Sherlock's pale eyes again. "But you do still need somewhere to live while you sort it out, do you not?"

"Well," John said, relishing the way the words slipped from his tongue. "I suppose I do."

#


	3. Chapter 3

As John slipped into Sherlock's crazy lifestyle, he just hoped he wasn't making a mistake.

There was no question that he felt more like himself than he had since the bullet had ripped through his shoulder. He had lost the army, lost his career as a surgeon, but helping Sherlock solve cases made him feel alive again.

He kept reminding himself that this was, out of necessity, only temporary. There would come a time when he would have to quit, to take up his responsibilities as Earl. Just as soon as he felt up to the challenge. Just as soon as he was on his feet again.

He tried not to think about the fact that it was only thanks to Sherlock that he was on both feet at all.

Of course, it wasn't like he was shirking his duties entirely, either. He still had regular Skype meetings with the family lawyer and business manager. He'd been lucky all these months that they had never questioned why he was never accessible any other way. He wondered whether they were simply that unobservant or just being discreet. Either way, they had never commented on his tan or military haircut, and he had always made a point of not wearing his uniform when they spoke.

In a way, it had felt like old times the day he was talking to them in his room when Sherlock started shooting the wall downstairs out of sheer boredom.

But, no. John wasn't ready to give this up. Not yet. He just wished his list of excuses weren't getting so short.

He was still amazed that Sherlock hadn't pried into his family (that he knew of, anyway). He hadn't decided if Sherlock just found the idea enervating and dull, if he truly didn't care … or if he was trying to be discreet. Because to John's own shock, Sherlock was not actually a terrible flatmate.

Oh, to be sure, he had his flaws. The body parts around the kitchen, for example, made the doctor in John cringe. (He didn't care how careful you were, cross-contamination of the food supply was a serious issue.) Sherlock's manners were inconsistent, his demands often peremptory, and his lack of consideration when he was in a lazy mood … well, he wasn't ideal.

Except … he also treated John like an equal, or a near-equal, at least—something John was sure Sherlock didn't do with many people. He was casually generous with his belongings (and assumed John would be the same—security on his laptop was non-existent these days, which was turning into a problem). But most important, he had very quickly become a _friend_.

In no time at all, Sherlock Holmes had managed to fill all the gaps in John's life—the companionship of the army, the professional challenge, the excitement and feeling of purpose. All things that he had loved about his life the last fifteen years.

And all things he didn't expect to have once he finally turned away from this and applied himself to his ultimate calling of Earl.

John had always been proud of his heritage. He still was, in fact. It was just so … dull. Paperwork and meetings. The occasional parties that he'd managed to avoid by being abroad all these years. (Thankfully his family all thought he avoided the elite, popular spots out of principle rather than because he had been deployed in an active war zone. He'd needed an excuse for never being on the Riviera when his so-called friends were.)

He was _definitely_ running out of time. Not only was Sherlock's attention (or lack thereof) something he could not depend on, but the longer he was in London, the more likely he would bump into somebody who knew him as John Brandon, not John Watson.

Like when John had followed him into the bank for the Blind Banker case. He was grateful Sherlock took his uneasiness as insecurity at the lush surroundings rather than an outright fear that he'd bump into his cousin Sara, but John had ended up snapping when Sherlock introduced him as a friend—and John was definitely observant enough to recognize that he'd hurt the man's feelings.

No, this little masquerade couldn't go on forever. Nor could he forget Mycroft's warning that Sherlock wasn't going to take this well, when he found out John had been keeping a secret.

To be honest, John wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't come out and told Sherlock about his title. It's not like Sherlock was going to be awed or impressed by it—John could think of few people who would be less impressed by something as relatively meaningless in the 21st century as a title. No, part of him whispered, it was more that he would make it real. His father would very definitely be dead, and all John's avoided obligations would suddenly become very … unavoidable. The minute he said it, it would become tangible and real and he would have no more excuses.

And, anyway, wasn't Sherlock the one always going on about being observant? It wasn't entirely John's fault if Sherlock didn't notice that his flatmate was an earl, was it?

It wasn't like John wasn't meeting his responsibilities. He had told Sherlock he was interviewing for a locum doctor, but he actually had gone to the library to do some paperwork and planning. It wasn't like he could concentrate in 221B, after all, or could afford to leave his correspondence lying about. But still, it wasn't like he'd actually gone to a doctor's office that day, and Sherlock hadn't noticed. No comments about the lack of sterilizing solutions or scent of illness on his clothes. John just couldn't tell if his flatmate hadn't noticed, or if he didn't care.

John admitted that he'd actually like to see how long it took for Sherlock to piece this together, but there was one thing that was worrying him.

Mycroft knew.

If he had learned anything about the two brothers in the weeks he'd lived with Sherlock, it was that they did not get along. At all. His flatmate was likely going to be less upset that John successfully kept a secret than that Mycroft had known all along.

But, really, how was John supposed to let him know? Sherlock took such pride in figuring things out, it would be better for _John_ if he just … let him. Instead of telling him. If Sherlock didn't realize that John was feeding him clues, all the better. Sherlock would have the pleasure of deducing something, John wouldn't have to come right out and tell him (an awkward conversation he was always happy to avoid), and by then, John would be ready to deal with his own family.

Really, this was the only way to go.

Stealth Deduction.

Perfect.

#

Or maybe not. The next time they went to the bank, John had actually seen his cousin Sara in the hall as he collected the check from Sebastian. He had explained to Sherlock when he ducked aside to avoid her. (In fact, it had worked out for the best, because it had given him a chance to clarify why he'd been so jittery that first time, when he'd inadvertently hurt Sherlock's feelings.)

"I'm surprised you have such a bad relationship with your family," Sherlock told him, watching him carefully. "You don't seem the type to hold a grudge."

John just shook his head. "It's not like that. We get along fine. I just don't want them to know I'm back yet."

"So, you're hiding," Sherlock said, a gleam in his eye.

"I'm stalling," John corrected. "The minute they know I'm back, I'm going to get sucked into a vortex of family issues … and won't have any time to help you anymore. For now, Skype is as close as I want to come to any of them. A returning soldier deserves some rest and relaxation, doesn't he?"

"You make your family sound worse than mine," said Sherlock with a glimmer of interest.

John wasn't fooled, though. He was well aware that Sherlock wasn't remotely interested in his family—or, at least, only insofar as they affected _John_ … because that affected Sherlock.

He honestly didn't think Sherlock would care about John being an earl. If anyone was disinterested in the nobility, it was Sherlock Holmes. He liked or disliked people solely on their own merits—family background didn't matter. John had seen him be friendly with his homeless network and completely rude to the wealthy … and vice versa. He was entirely ecumenical in his dislike. He only cared about how interesting they were, or how their existence affected _him_.

So, no, John being an earl was never going to faze Sherlock, but if his family obligations started interfering with The Work, well …

The problem, though, was that John was finding it harder to drop hints about his family than he had hoped. Sherlock's disinterest meant that he didn't care when John asked him to be quiet while he Skyped from upstairs. The knowledge that John had a cousin working in the same bank as Sebastian barely elicited a shrug. (Though John wondered if the reaction would have been different had Sherlock known his cousin Sara was one of the Vice-Presidents and not just a mid-level assistant.)

Even John's obvious lack of practicing medicine didn't raise any flags. John had told Sherlock he'd gone on a job interview to excuse a meeting with his lawyer, but his ongoing absences never seemed to make his flatmate curious.

As mysteries went, it was baffling John. He hadn't shared a flat with Sherlock for long, but the man was practically insatiable about wanting to know _everything_. John wasn't vain enough to think that his movements would be overly important to Sherlock, but still … he was deliberately allowing inconsistencies to occur, solely to whet Sherlock's curiosity. So, why wasn't it working?

In all honesty, he wished Sherlock would say or do something, because it was becoming a strain. More than ever before, John felt he was living a double life and it was exhausting. He had invested in a second laptop where he kept all the documents and files connected to his 'family business.' He kept it outside the flat, stored in a locked cubby at an office share he'd rented, from where he conducted whatever business he needed. In a way, it was a comfort keeping it all very separate from 221B, but it was also a complication he regretted.

He had only himself to blame, of course. He could have told Sherlock about this that first night. He had referred to family obligations, after all, and stressed that they might make his tenure at Baker Street a short one, but Sherlock had _never followed up_.

And so, with each delay, each fib about where he was going, he was digging himself deeper, and he hated it. John Brandon was never meant to live a lie, after all, and while two separate lives had been easy enough to keep apart while he was in the army, now that he was back in London … well, there was too much time dodging relatives and skulking about under Sherlock's radar.

And the stress was beginning to show.

#

Sherlock lay on the couch, watching John gather his keys and phone and such, not bothering to move as his flatmate headed toward the door. He just grunted and gave a faint hand-wave as John said goodbye, pretending not to notice how the other man's shoulders slouched ever so faintly as he went through the door.

Sherlock didn't move until he heard the street door close, and then he was on his feet, tearing off his dressing gown and reaching for his jacket. He grabbed his coat as he tore down the stairs, bursting onto the pavement as he looked for John, just disappearing around the corner. He gave a nod to Jamie across the street who pelted off to give the sign to the rest of the Network. On the off-chance he lost John in the crowd, they would keep an eye out.

Because Sherlock did want to know where his flatmate was going several times a week.

John had said he was applying for locum work as a doctor, but he never came home with any signs of practicing medicine. No scents of alcohol or sanitizer. No vomit from small children, no indications that he had worn his stethoscope or set foot within a block of a medical practice.

He was not showing any signs of being short of money, though, even on his army pension, and this was what was bothering Sherlock. John had outright told him, the night he shot the cabbie, that Mycroft had offered to pay him to spy on Sherlock. He'd claimed to say no.

What if he had lied?

If so, that would change everything Sherlock knew about the doctor. No longer would John be the trustworthy, loyal friend—a word Sherlock had only started using in his mind since the Blind Banker case. (An absurd name.) If John truly had been compromised by Mycroft, well … clearly that would change matters.

In purely practical matters, this would be problematic because it turned out that John was perfectly acceptable as a flatmate. He wasn't overly annoying, he did the shopping with relatively few complaints, and if he protested about food contamination, well … Sherlock could forgive that. With John's medical training, he probably couldn't help that any more than he could help the nightmares that interrupted his sleep. The odds of finding another flatmate able to put up with Sherlock would be … slim.

He wondered how he'd been so blind. Sherlock strode down the street, chastising himself for his idealistic faith in John, presumably because the man had saved his life. (Though Sherlock was as certain as ever that he'd picked the correct pill.)

Of course John was being paid to be his flatmate.

It really was the only logical explanation; he'd been a fool to hope otherwise. Really, the only true question left was how had Mycroft found him? And known that John, of all possible flatmates in the city of London, would be the one that Sherlock accepted.

Because, they were definitely heading away from Harley Street, and Sherlock did not know of any medical practices in this district at all.

So, John had lied.

Sherlock wondered if he was going to walk in on John reporting to Mycroft—though that would be absurd. What would be the point? The man reported on Sherlock's movements almost daily by means of his blog. (Such an innocent, obvious means of communication, too. How had he missed its true purpose? How had he fallen for the "therapy" excuse?) What possible reason could there be for him to take the risk of a face-to-face meeting?

Unless it wasn't Mycroft at all? What if John was a plant for Moriarty? He had shown up, after all, just as Moriarty appeared on Sherlock's radar. The challenge of that would almost be worth the rather odd and unfamiliar feeling of betrayal.

He was so caught up in his thoughts, he almost missed John's turn into a rather nondescript office building.

He watched through the window as John strode down the hallway, obviously familiar and comfortable. It wasn't the first time he'd been here.

Sherlock noted the door he entered, and then paused outside, longing for a cigarette. Now, he thought, the truth would come out, except he wasn't sure he wanted to know. What if he walked through that door and discovered something that ruined the friendship he had forged with John?

Still, it was better to know, wasn't it? That had been the mantra of his entire life, after all.

Even so, it took him longer than he would have liked to force himself to walk through that door, but eventually, bracing himself for the familiar sting of betrayal, he pulled open the door and went inside.

#


	4. Chapter 4

John had barely begun his Skype session when the door opened.

He sighed to himself as the tall, familiar form of his flatmate appeared in the doorway. It had only been a matter of time, after all. "Hold on a minute, Geoffrey," he said as Sherlock quickly crossed the room to look at the computer screen.

He gave Sherlock a moment to see that he wasn't talking to Mycroft, and then told his lawyer he would call him back and hit the end button. And waited.

After a long moment, Sherlock said, "John, I…"

That appeared to be all he could manage though, so after waiting, John said, "Let me guess. You were expecting a secret meeting with your brother?"

"The thought had occurred," Sherlock said, voice tentative as his eyes scanned the room.

"Of course it did," John said. "Even though I told you I'd turned down his offer?"

"And then proceeded to lie to me about where you were going each day," Sherlock confirmed with a nod. "I mean, really, John. Did you honestly think I would believe you were spending your days practicing medicine when you showed absolutely no signs of it?"

John leaned back in his chair. "I didn't think you cared, honestly. It's not like you've been paying attention."

Sherlock's eyes crinkled as he scoffed. "Of course I've been paying attention. I _observe_, remember?" He glanced down at the laptop, still open to Skype. "I do hope you're not doing anything illegal. I wouldn't turn you in, of course, but Mycroft would never let me live it down."

"Illegal? Why would you… Jesus, Sherlock, I thought you knew me better than that?" John was surprised at how hurt he felt by that.

"You're renting desk space in a shared office—a desk which has nothing on it other than printer, pens, a stapler, notepad… Basic office supplies. There is nothing personal in the space at all, and the computer is a more expensive one than the one you have at home. You're obviously making some money, then, since your army pension only goes so far." Sherlock took a step into the room. "If you're not, in fact, meeting with my brother, and you can afford all this … one must wonder how?"

John rubbed at his forehead. "I'm not saying it's not a valid question, Sherlock. I'm saying I can't believe you would immediately jump to the thought of me breaking the law. I'd be insulted if I didn't think you might possibly have meant it as a compliment. Oh, sit down already."

He waved Sherlock to the one, spare chair, which the man took, sitting almost tentatively, coat drawn about his knees. "It would have been daring of you, conducting an illegal operation right under my nose."

"Sure. I suppose," John said. "But what happened to that moral compass you said I had? I just stomped on that, did I?"

"Necessity can force even the best of men into bad situations, John, and this isn't exactly an … encouraging … environment."

John gave a little huff of a laugh. "Well, no, but I needed somewhere anonymous I could get things done that was out of the flat. I wasn't exactly worried about the décor."

"Clearly," Sherlock said with a sniff, even as his eyes bored into John's. "Why the anonymity?"

"You tell me," John said. "You know I'm not talking to your brother, and I can assure you I'm very definitely not committing any crimes. What's left?"

He watched as Sherlock again scanned the room. "You could be doing online medical consultations, but you have no reference books, nothing to consult, and you are far too conscientious to conduct diagnoses without physical examinations. You mentioned needing this space for anonymity, though, not privacy, so it wasn't solely a means of getting away from me that drove you to this."

"Which isn't to say it wasn't an issue," John inserted. "It's hard to concentrate when someone's firing my gun at the wall downstairs."

He watched with amusement as Sherlock waved that off. "Please. You were in the army. No, you needed space to concentrate where you were unknown. Since you went to the trouble of renting office space instead of just using the library or a cafe, it leads me to believe this is to do with your mythical Family Issues which you have been avoiding since you returned home."

John couldn't help the smile. "Spot on. I don't want to bump into my family. What else?"

He was amused at the look on Sherlock's face as he readied himself to dig deeper. "The money. You're having no trouble affording the space. It's not exactly luxurious, yet your army pension barely covers the rent at 221B. So you have some other source of income."

John nodded, feeling the lines on his face furrowing deeper into his skin. Here it was. The moment of truth. He couldn't keep the truth from Sherlock any longer. The fact that he actually had quite a bit of money in the bank he could tap at any time. That not only could he afford this dim corner of a shared office, he could be using the study in his _own London townhouse_ instead. Because he owned one. An entire house, free and clear, ready and waiting for him whenever he wanted to move in. Not to mention Undershaw itself, the ancestral seat where the Earls had lived for centuries.

All ready for him the very _minute_ John decided to let his family know he was home.

Which—if Sherlock took this badly—might be today.

It was only when he realized how carefully Sherlock was watching him that he realized how tense his shoulders had gotten as he braced himself.

He was entirely unprepared for the gentle way Sherlock asked him, "What is it about your family that worries you, John? I understand not wanting to see them, but … this level of avoidance... Do you dislike them that much? What have they done to you?"

John was already shaking his head. "No, it's not like that. We get along fine, but … you know how there are moments in your life when, if you take just one step or do one specific thing, you're not going to be able to go back? Those crossroads kinds of moments that change everything?"

He expected a brusque "of course, John," but Sherlock surprised him again and simply nodded, concern on his face now.

"My letting my family know I'm in London is going to be one of those moments," John told him. "After that, I won't be able to go back."

"You're afraid of being sucked into a life you don't want?" Sherlock asked. "That's certainly something I can sympathize with. You can probably imagine that this isn't the life my parents had planned for me."

"Not hardly," John said, unable to suppress the smile.

"I imagine it's some kind of family business they want you involved in? Don't they realize you're a trained doctor? Expecting you to give that up is practically medieval … and believe me, the Holmes family goes back far enough that I can speak with assurance on that fact. I can give you some tips to avoid that—and you shouldn't even need to resort to cocaine like I did…"

John was holding up a hand, trying to get Sherlock to wait, but that last comment made him burst out with laughter. "God, I hope not. But, no, Sherlock. It's … well, it _is_ kind of a family business, but it's not what you think. I'm not talking about a family shop or something. It's just that … things changed when my father died."

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of his letterhead. (He still couldn't believe he even owned letterhead, because didn't everyone do things by email these days?) Nevertheless, there were times he needed it and so he had it. He looked at the ivory sheet, solid, textured, its embossed heading rough under his fingers.

**Jonathan H. W. Brandon**

**Earl of Undershaw**

"The minute they all know I'm home," he said, sliding the paper across the desk, "This all becomes very inescapably real."

He watched Sherlock pull the stationery toward him and then momentarily freeze as he saw the heading. He looked over to John with as stark a look of shock on his face as John had ever seen, even more surprised than when he'd shot the cabbie. "Earl of Undershaw?"

He nodded. "My father died nine months ago, when I still had six months of service left. I could have gotten out early, all things considered, but I wanted to finish out my tour. I was home for the funeral, but then used Skype to keep in touch with the lawyer and business manager. I figured I'd be home soon enough and—I didn't want to leave my tour undone." He shrugged, unsure how to continue.

"And then you were shot."

"Yes." John could feel the tension in his shoulders again. "And so I was home early after all, but … broken."

"You were not _broken_," Sherlock said with a snap.

"I was," John said sadly. "You fixed my limp, your brother helped with the tremor … but yeah, I was broken. Nowhere near ready to take up my duties the way I'd planned. So I kept using Skype and email, treating it like a part-time job, but … I can only put off the inevitable for so long."

"And you didn't want to tell me."

John almost winced at the hurt in the man's voice. "I didn't want to tell you because I've been avoiding even thinking about it, for months." John told him. "My own family doesn't even know I'm in the country, Sherlock. It's not like I've been keeping it a secret from you so much as not wanting to admit it to myself. And anyway, I've been dropping hints, you know. I thought if you deduced it, you'd know, but I wouldn't have had to actually tell you. You're the one who keeps saying he's so observant."

"I don't see how I could have deduced you were an _earl_, John," Sherlock said. "A wealthy family that you were avoiding might be possible, but a title?"

"I thought you might look into my family once you got curious, and the data is all there. But then you didn't _get_ curious." John rubbed his hands over his head. "I know, I'm pathetic, which is exactly the reason I haven't said anything. How could I? I'm not exactly anybody's idea of an earl, am I? I've spent too much time in a war zone and can't even tell my own flatmate…"

"You are not pathetic," Sherlock told him. "Or, not much. Your family has to understand that you're dealing with the after-effects of a war. Even if it's not actually PTSD, there are still…" He broke off as John began to laugh. "What?"

John could only shake his head. "They don't even know I was in the army, Sherlock. So far as they're concerned, any tan I've got has been gained on unfashionable beaches on the Riviera. They know I don't go to the popular spots, but my family pretty much all believe that I spend all my time outside the country being a playboy, or something. I don't honestly know what they think I'm doing but they're not as observant as you are. They've never noticed that my tan stops at my wrists."

He was gratified to see Sherlock looking actually flummoxed. "Your family doesn't know you've been in the army? How is that … Why would you do that?"

"You mean keeping them from freaking out at the possibility I could be killed at any moment?" John asked, feeling the sarcasm biting at his tongue. "Stopping them from pestering my father—and grandfather before him—when he already had enough to deal with? Avoiding all the questions and misapprehensions? The fact that I know they would have tried to prevent me from being of service, from doing what I wanted to do? I thought you of all people would understand that, Sherlock. You haven't let your family box you into its narrow expectations, either."

"That's … that's not the same," Sherlock said, stumbling slightly over the words. John knew it wasn't, of course. Sherlock had avoided his family's expectations by doing cocaine and accomplishing as little as a brilliant man could possibly do. He had made himself unfit for responsibilities.

John, on the other hand, had done the opposite. He had been so determined to be useful, he hadn't let the narrow, societal obligations hold him back. He had lied, yes, but it had been so he could join the army and save lives where he felt he was most urgently needed. He might have side-stepped some minor responsibilities here at home, but he had had the greater good in mind.

Except, regardless of the method, the fall-out would be much the same. Both he and Sherlock had deliberately sidestepped the expectations of polite society, and that was something narrow-minded people simply could not forgive. It wouldn't matter that his father had approved, or that he had been serving his country—the more superficial aunts and cousins would hold it against him. Even the others, like his cousin David who worked at the palace, would find it hard to understand why the next in line for an earldom felt the need to join the army as a surgeon.

And he still didn't know how to explain any of this to Sherlock. The man seemed to care so little for other people's opinions. Had he been in John's shoes, he would have headed off to war with bugles blaring, just to make sure everyone saw how very little he cared about their expectations of him.

Except, Sherlock did understand the value of doing good quietly. Yes, he solved crimes for the Yard for no credit and no payment. He looked after his Homeless Network, too, and even if he claimed it was only because of their usefulness, John had seen how he kept an eye on them, even if it was rather with an air of _noblesse oblige_. He might scoff at duty and obligations all he liked, but at root, he understood that there were some obligations one could not avoid.

And so John just sighed. "Maybe not, but it was working …right up until I got shot. Suddenly what would have been a series of conversations about my having been in the army but look, nothing happened and I'm home now, turned into my having to explain my recklessness at nearly being killed and leaving everything a mess. It's not like I have a direct heir, or anything. It would have been a mess and I would have let it happen."

"But you would have been dead, John. Why would you care?"

"Because I do, Sherlock. I almost died and left everything a mess, and for what? How am I supposed to explain any of this?"

"Why do you need to?" Sherlock asked. "You're no longer using your cane, your tan is beginning to fade … if you choose to keep your military service secret, there's no reason you can't."

John couldn't even find a response to that. Did the man not understand that he was _broken_? It wasn't like he could just move into his house as if the last fifteen years hadn't happened. What happened when he woke up with nightmares—still happening more often than he liked to think about. What happened the first time a maid walked up behind him too quietly?

"It's not that easy, Sherlock. It's one thing to keep my service quiet when I was just making short visits home, but … it's different now." So very different, he thought. "Oh, and there's one more thing. Your brother knows."

#


	5. Chapter 5

"Oh, and there's one more thing," John said, as if the rest of the day's revelations weren't enough. "Your brother knows."

For a moment, Sherlock felt _hurt_. He could barely understand John's reasons for keeping this a secret. (Because, really, what difference could his army past possibly make to his family? He was home now, so what business was it of theirs?) But, John had told _Mycroft_?

He must have let some of that show on his face, because John immediately said, "I didn't tell him. He already knew when he kidnapped me that first time—the night I shot the cabbie. Remember I told you he was trying to convince me to stay? It was because of this. He told me … oh, I remember this … he found it so hard to believe that my problem was that I _wanted_ to move in with you. As if that were inconceivable."

Sherlock did remember that. John had explained over Chinese food about wanting to stay but having family issues. Family issues! He hadn't said he was actually an _Earl_. Not that Sherlock cared. There were already too many idiots swanning about because they had titles—he'd gone to school with too many of them, and they'd been insufferable even then.

But, John having a title … even in the 21st century, that was going to mean certain obligations. Even Sherlock knew that. They might be stupid, irritating, meaningless, and a waste of time, but that didn't mean they could be entirely avoided. They were the kinds of things Mycroft excelled at, after all.

But … John?

It was true he was good at tedious paperwork—no doubt his training not only as a doctor but in the army had helped him there. The idea of him doing nothing but, though? It seemed wrong. John was capable of being so much more than just a paper-pusher.

The fact that he was a titled paper-pusher made no difference. He was much too responsible to pass it on. John was the type of man to hire a secretary and then do all her work for her. He seemed constitutionally unable to pass off the tedious jobs … which is how he ended up with so many of Sherlock's.

Blinking, he remembered that John was waiting for a response. He struggled to remember back to where the conversation had been when his brain had shifted into a higher gear. "So how did my _brother_ convince you to stay, then?"

A wistful smile pulled at John's lips. "It wasn't hard. He pointed out that just because I wanted it, didn't mean it was wrong." He looked over at Sherlock. "You know, my father has … or rather, _I_ … have a house here in the city. I mean, I wasn't ready to when I got back for … a number of reasons. But it's there, waiting. I didn't really need a flatmate."

Neither had Sherlock, he mused, not really. Not once he'd convinced Mycroft he wasn't going to squander his trust fund on cocaine. "So why were you looking? Even if you hadn't wanted the no doubt more than adequate house already in your name, I'm sure you had a corresponding bank account?"

John tilted his head, not wanting to agree. "Yeah, but other than the logistics of explaining to my accountant why I wanted to pay for a flat in London when I own a house … it didn't seem right to use my inherited money if I wasn't going to, well, take up my inheritance. I've been making sure the necessary things get done, mind you, but … I haven't exactly committed myself. And then…"

"Yes?"

"I wanted the company. I couldn't bear being by myself. Before I met you, I thought a flatmate would just be a helpful distraction to talk to over breakfast or whatever. A step toward something resembling normalcy." He paused as Sherlock made an impatient noise. Whoever wanted to be _normal_? John chuckled. "Exactly. Because it turns out that normal was the last thing I needed. Which means I was right—in some ways moving in with you was the best thing that could have happened to me, but it also means it's becoming impossible to tear myself away."

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, agreeing, then went back to the salient point. "But Mycroft knew?"

"Yes. I have no idea how he dug it out, especially so quickly."

"Very few things can stand in the way of Mycroft in full research mode," Sherlock said, grudging.

"Sure," John agreed, "Especially since, in this case, he was going up against your father. Apparently he was the one who helped my father get the paperwork through that let me enrol in uni under Mum's name instead of Brandon. Weird, isn't it? To think our fathers knew each other?"

Weird wasn't the word, thought Sherlock, remembering the cold man that his father had been. There was an intriguing symmetry at the thought, but it still rankled that Mycroft had known about John first. "I suppose he gloated about it."

"My father? Oh, no, you're back to Mycroft again. No, he didn't. He did suggest I tell you rather than waiting for you to find out, but … like I said. That would have made this real." John looked down, staring at the sheet of stationery on the desk, and drew a sigh. "I suppose now it is."

Sherlock wasn't sure how to read the mournful tone in his flatmate's voice. He looked around the dingy office again. "On the plus side, that means you can get out of here. This office is dreadful, John. You'd be much better off at 221B, now that you don't have to fake going to work every day."

John smiled a bit as he looked around the room, but it was forced, nothing like the real smiles that warmed his eyes. "I suppose. Or I could accept the inevitable and start using the office in my actual house. I could commute, for starters, assuming you still want me."

Sherlock just shook his head. Really, for an intelligent man, John was an idiot.

#

John was trying to figure out how to go home again when Moriarty exploded into their lives.

In the weeks since Sherlock had found out John's secret, things had gotten easier—in some ways at least. John was able to address his family business from the comfort of 221B, and Sherlock had promised not to pry into what he was calling "earl business." ("Really, John, it's so dull. Why would you think I would be remotely interested?")

In the meantime, John had come clean with his lawyer. The man had always known that John was in the army—it had been necessary even while his father was live. (Somebody needed to know how to reach John in case of an emergency, after all.) He hadn't known John was back in London, though.

Even better, from John's point of view, the man had not known that John had been shot. That was news John wanted to keep to himself. Forever, if possible. The reaction from his Aunt Sara alone was enough that he hoped they never found out he'd almost died. He hadn't decided if he wanted to tell the family about his military career at all. It was one thing for his lawyer to know he'd been in the army, but there was no reason to tell everyone else, was there?

Still, some things get taken out of your hands.

"John? John Brandon?"

John paused on the pavement, fighting a sense of déjà vu, but instead of Mike Stamford, the man hailing him was his cousin David. "My God, John, is that you? I haven't seen you in ages! When did you get back in country?"

John gave a polite nod and shrugged a bit, sidestepping the question. "It's good to see you, too, David. What brings you here?"

"A meeting," David said with a friendly grin. "What else does one do all day? You?"

"Same. I've got an 11:00 with Mycroft Holmes."

"You know Mycroft?" His cousin sounded surprised.

"His brother's my fla … friend," John told him, cursing himself for the verbal stumble. This was why he hated lying—though he was better when he wasn't blindsided like this.

David glanced around. "He's not with you, though?"

"No, he sent me over to pick up some things since I had some time and he's busy working on a case. He's a consulting detective, you know. He helps out the Yard when they need him."

"Interesting. You must be good friends if you're running errands for him. But, really, how long have you been back?"

"Er … probably longer than I should have been without getting in touch," John said, giving his cousin a rueful smile. "I've been trying to keep under the radar. I'm not even staying at the house. I figured it would attract too much attention."

David gave a casual shrug. "And yet you're running errands for Mycroft Holmes?"

"Not an errand," John said as politely as he could manage. "A favour for his brother. Same effect but totally different cause. Purely coincidental—like our bumping into each other." He glanced down at the bag in his hand. "I should be going. I'll get in touch when I'm officially here, shall I? Love to the family."

He retreated then, as calmly as possible, all while cursing his luck and Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes for putting him in this situation. He would never have run into his cousin if Sherlock had been bothered to get off the couch and come do something for his brother, for his country. Wasn't the whole point of renting that miserable office in the first place to stay away from Mayfair to avoid meetings like this?

He believed he could trust David's discretion, though … up to a point. The man would give him some time, but only so much. John's option of staying off the family radar just came down to a window of a few weeks.

Maybe he really should consider using his father's… or rather, _his_ home office. If he were out of sight, maybe Sherlock wouldn't think to send him on fool's errands like these. Not that John wasn't glad to help—and collecting these files was at least something he could do, unlike the five-pip puzzles Sherlock was enamoured with just now.

Not that John didn't understand. He'd seen Sherlock being bored and had no trouble believing that the puzzles were incredibly tempting cream tea with jam for him.

No, what was worrying John was the way Sherlock was so clearly enjoying himself. John could almost see what bothered Donovan so much—he was so engrossed with the mystery, he wasn't thinking about the people involved.

Oh, John had understood when Sherlock made his biting comment about there being people in the hospital who were in pain and John wasn't agonizing over them, but that was different. As a surgeon, John knew there were times you needed to cause pain to solve a problem, that you couldn't think about how sore a patient was going to be post-op because that would just keep you from doing your job. A police officer needed to do the same thing, for that matter—focus on the job at hand and keep the emotional toll at a distance.

John knew the necessity of keeping one's distance.

But there was a difference between maintaining a professional distance and the sense of glee that Sherlock was exuding. The man wasn't just intrigued, he was practically dancing for joy, and even if that kept him from shooting the walls, it still seemed marginally indecent, even to John. No matter how delighted he was to be engaged by an intriguing puzzle, how could he not spare a thought to the lives at risk?

Not to mention spitefully ignoring a breach in state security solely because it was his brother who asked for his help.

As much as John wanted to help, he felt … _not_. Not helpful. Not useful. Not needed. Not appreciated.

Not right now, anyway.

It was just a sign of how much he had improved since moving in with Sherlock that he could actually think that maybe the time was coming for him to consider moving on. It wasn't so much that Sherlock was difficult to live with—John could deal with that—but he did need to feel useful, and right now … any discreet messenger service could do this.

If he wasn't being useful where he was, what was the point? It wasn't like he had nowhere else to go, no other duties to attend. As much as he had enjoyed these last three months, if he was going to be useless, well, he could do that while dealing with the endless paperwork that came with an Earl's coronet these days.

There was no question that he enjoyed Sherlock's company. The man was fascinating and certainly his work was more interesting than anything John had on at present. John enjoyed helping him, nor did he mind doing some of the grunt work so Sherlock could concentrate. But now?

He told himself he was being childish, that he was just feeling disgruntled because he'd bumped into David—the cousin who always seemed to have his life together, who acted the way John felt an earl should act. No nonsense with guns, medicine, or chasing criminals—just elegance and graciousness and an intelligence that was sharp but not cutting. John shouldn't let that one meeting colour his entire life at 221B. After all, no matter what Sherlock actually said, he had to care at least a little for John's contributions … didn't he?

#

Except things didn't get better over the next couple of days. John did what he could to investigate the missing Bruce-Partington plans but knew he was out of his depth. Sherlock was acting more enamoured of the person behind the pips and the bomb jackets than any person should be, and his protestation that there was no such thing as a hero kept ringing through John's ears. Maybe he wasn't, but didn't Sherlock realize that he could be?

But then it was over, finally. The missile plans were returned to Mycroft and things could get back to normal.

It was just that John wasn't sure what that normal was, anymore. Sherlock had been so concentrated on the bomber case, John felt like he'd been running at full tilt for a week. Everything since that first explosion on Baker Street was a blur.

He felt he was floundering. He was sure that Sherlock was a good person (no matter how well he might hide it). He thought the man was mistaken, too, about himself—Sherlock was no more a sociopath than John was, but he seemed to have a skewed idea of the kind of person he was. John thought that Sherlock liked to believe he didn't care, but that he did—it was just that the only way to keep those messy feelings at bay was to pretend they didn't exist.

But, really, what was John contributing to this partnership? He was some use doing legwork and was good in a fight but it wasn't like he didn't have other obligations.

Which is why, the afternoon after reclaiming the missile plans, he wasn't entirely surprised to find himself on his own doorstep.

"Hello, Stoker," he said as his butler opened the door. "I'm back."

#


	6. Chapter 6

"My Lord!" Stoker said, shock clear on his face for one, brief second before he pulled his face back to neutral and stepped back from the door. "I didn't know you were home, sir."

John shrugged a bit as he stepped inside and set down his briefcase. "It's not really official," he said.

The man was looking past him. "No luggage, sir?"

"Not right now. I'm only here for a few hours," John told him, pulling off his jacket and brushing at his suit. "It's a long story, Stoker."

He watched the man swallow down his curiosity and gave him a smile before picking up his briefcase and heading toward his father's office. Or, well, his office now. "I've been talking to Geoffrey, and he knows I'm back in London. I just haven't been ready to move back yet—you know as well as I do that the minute the family learns I'm here, they're going to descend _en masse_. I'm really not ready to face that yet."

"But you are back in London, sir? For good?"

"If you mean out of the army, yes," John told him. "I'm done. I'm just trying to find my feet. I'm still adjusting to being a civilian again—moving into Father's house, too, makes it all rather overwhelming. For right now, the plan is to come for a bit each day, but not actually live here. It sounds crazy, I know, but…"

He gave a sidewise glance, afraid he would see derision on his butler's face (trying not to think about _having_ a butler). He had known Stoker his whole life and had always gotten along with the man, but … he had never felt this broken before. The man's entire livelihood depended on John—his and Mrs McTavish and the maid and the driver (God, he had a _driver_)—and none of them would be reassured at knowing how close to the mental edge John was living.

To his relief, though, there was nothing but concern in the man's expression. "Not crazy at all, if I may say so. It's been a long time since you lived here, and never without your father. It's a large adjustment."

"And that's an understatement," John said. "Why don't you go get some tea for all of us from Mrs McTavish and bring me up to date on anything that's been pending. It will be a relief not to have to do this over the computer for a change."

He drew in a sharp breath after the man left for the kitchen. He expected he had about three and a half minutes before his cook came rushing in to see him. (Ten minutes if she waited to bring the tea with her.) He hadn't grown up in this house, but he had visited his grandfather often when he was a child and these two sometimes still treated him like a fond aunt and uncle. He thought for a moment about what his convalescence would have been like if he'd come here instead of letting the army cover it. It had probably been foolish of him not to take advantage of the best doctors money could buy, but he hadn't been able to shake the feeling of guilt and shame at being wounded. He knew it wasn't his fault, he knew this was one of the reasons he was supposed to be seeing a therapist, but still … having nearly been killed left him with an obscure sense of inadequacy, no matter how unjustified.

Which had been exactly why he had not wanted to face this room, this house, until he had been back on his feet—in all senses. The idea of being fawned over as a returning war hero, or whatever, had been unbearable. He wouldn't be here now if it weren't for Sherlock.

He sighed, thinking about how very true that statement was. Sherlock saved his life—figuratively by curing his limp, but also literally in the Blind Banker case—but he was also making John feel less than useful, and that John truly couldn't bear.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the tartan whirlwind that was his cook, hurrying into the room and pulling him into a hug. "Oh, John, it's so good to see you. You've stayed away too long!"

"Yes, Mrs McTavish, I know."

"Look at you. You're too thin, and you're not getting enough sleep. You look exhausted. What have you been doing to yourself, my Lord?"

John was touched by the concern in her voice. He had never realized quite how much Mrs Hudson reminded him of her—not in appearance, but in that broad, loving, maternal affection. He had a vision of the two of them tutting over him in harmony, comparing scone recipes and making pot after pot of tea. And so he smiled as he returned the hug and then pushed her gently away. "I've just been busy."

"Busy? You're worn to the bone. I'm inclined to go give the army a piece of my mind, sending you back in such shape."

John froze. How did she know he had been in the army? He couldn't believe that Johnson had said anything, but before he could even ask, she answered the unspoken question. "I have eyes in my head, my Lord, and a brain to go with it, but I also know how to keep a secret. You didn't want people to know, so I kept my peace. But now? Look at you…"

He should have known. John held up a hand to stave off the recriminations. "It's not the army's fault. I've been … I'm actually …" Good grief, he was bad at this. If he couldn't come up with an explanation for the two people he had known since childhood and who were absolutely reliable, what was he going to say to everyone else? "I've been working with Scotland Yard, trying to catch the bomber that's been in the news," he finally said. "It's not something I can really talk about, or, er…"

He trailed off, remembering his blog. What was he saying? He talked about cases all the time. Not until they were done, usually, and he tried to keep evidence that could affect a court case out of his posts, but still. He blogged about his cases, and it was there on the internet for anyone to read. If he wanted to reconcile the two halves of his life, he needed to come clean—just like he had with Sherlock before this whole mess literally exploded in their faces.

And so he said, "I've been back for a while, actually, but I wasn't quite ready to come home yet. I've been sharing a flat with a really brilliant detective who works with the Yard, and…"

"You blog about it," Mrs McTavish said. "Yes, dear, we know."

"You know?" he asked, stunned. "Both of you?"

"Of course we do," his butler said. "You've been discreet, my lord, about keeping the Brandon name out of it, but it's not like we haven't known you were using your mother's name since you left home. Naturally we found your blog. We do know how to use Google."

John was floored. "So you've known I was in London this whole time?"

"And holding our breath," Mrs McTavish said. "Some of your posts were terrifying. It was all I could do not to march to Baker Street to fetch you."

John had a mental image of his cook twisting Sherlock's ear as she brandished a rolling pin. He had known these two were smart, that they cared for him, but this level of loyalty … well, his father had cared for them deeply. Of course they were loyal. And, class and rank didn't matter much when it concerned adults caring for men or women they'd watched grow up. Caring at all, really. Look at Mrs Hudson, who seemed to love Sherlock like a particularly exasperating son. How had he not realized that all those hours spent sharing biscuits and milk when he was a child would turn into such a fierce sense of loyalty now?

Meanwhile, he just shook his head. "Right. Well, then you know what I've been up to. Tell me about you. How's that nephew of yours?"

#

Several hours later, John was feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. The three of them had visited together for a time, until at some unspoken signal, they had all withdrawn back into their usual roles. Mrs McTavish had returned to the kitchen and John and Stoker had dug into files and papers and accomplished a lot of boring, administrative kinds of things.

As good as the company was, it just reminded John of why he was still living with Sherlock Holmes.

Although, of course, he didn't always have this much of a backlog of paperwork. And the tea was excellent.

Mrs Hudson's was too, of course.

When they were done, John gave a weary stretch. It hadn't been fun, exactly, but they'd accomplished a lot and with the week he was having, that was like a balm to his soul. Now it was getting late. It suddenly seemed awfully far to Baker Street.

"You could spend the night, my lord," Stoker said. "The bedroom upstairs is always ready, and I'm quite sure McTavish has put fresh sheets on by now."

John chuckled. "I wouldn't be surprised. I didn't plan on being out all night, but…" He had to admit, not having to go back out in the cold to fight his way across the city sounded immensely appealing. How many days had it been since he'd had a full night's sleep?

He pulled out his phone and sent a text.

—_Thinking of spending the night. Do you need me for anything?_

—_Nothing on at the moment. Just watching crap telly—for which I blame you. I'll see you in the morning. SH._

—_I'll try to remember to bring some milk. There's risotto in the fridge. You should eat something._

—_Yes, mother. SH._

John pocketed his phone with a smile. "Right, it looks like I'll be spending the night after all."

"I'm glad to hear it, my Lord. It smells like Mrs McTavish has been cooking since you arrived."

John scented the air and gave another smile. "It does at that. I've missed her cooking."

It seemed like it was John's fate not to be able to relax over a meal, though, because he was barely halfway through the truly excellent roast dinner when the doorbell rang. That's odd, he thought, pausing with his fork mid-air. The house was effectively empty. Who would be ringing the bell? Maybe Sherlock had gotten bored?

He could hear the rumble of Stoker's voice as he spoke to whoever was at the door, but John didn't recognize the speaker. Not Sherlock, then. But Stoker hadn't shut the door as he would have to a salesman.

Laying his cutlery down as quietly as possible, John got up and moved toward the door, peering into the hall.

"…_Just tell Dr Watson that Mr Holmes needs to speak with him. Tell him it's about the fifth pip_."

John froze. How could he have forgotten? Just because they had solved Mycroft's problem didn't mean the madman with the bomb vests had been taken care of. And Sherlock had seemed so relaxed earlier, perfectly content that their task was done.

Unless it had been a blind and he'd just been hoping John would let his guard down enough to simply go away.

Well, that had worked, he supposed. He had left Sherlock alone and now … what? He wanted John's help? Then why hadn't he said so earlier? Or sent him a text? Unless … what if the bomber had taken things to a new level and actually captured _Sherlock_? The man at the door hadn't said which Holmes it was, after all, and … what if this were Mycroft, sending for John because Sherlock needed help?

That made appallingly logical sense. After all, who else would have known to look for John here?

All this had sped through his head, and he was walking into the foyer before he'd given it a thought. "What happened?"

He saw relief in the man's eyes as he said, "I don't know the details, Dr Watson, just that he said it was do with the fifth pip."

"Right. Just give me a minute. Stoker, I need my jacket," John said as he hurried back to the office, all thoughts of Mrs McTavish's dinner ignored. The laptop could stay here for now, he thought, he just needed his phone.

—_Where am I going? What did he do now?_

He sent the message and stuffed the phone in his pocket, wishing he'd thought to bring his gun. "Let's go," he said as he hurried back into the hall. "Sorry about rushing off, Stoker. Make my apologies to her, won't you?"

He barely listened to the murmured acknowledgement before he was out the door and moving toward the sleek car waiting at the kerb. "What happened?" he asked again as he climbed in, only realizing there was already someone in the backseat as the first man slid in behind him.

His phone chimed and he reached for it automatically as he waited for an answer.

"I'll take that, Dr Watson."

"What?"

"Your phone. Now."

It was only then, as the locks in the door engaged and they merged smoothly into traffic, that John realized that there were two guns pointing his way.

"You don't work for Mycroft, do you?" he asked numbly as he glanced down at his phone. He caught a glimpse of the incoming text just before it was taken from him.

—_I did not send a car, John. MH_

#

(Note: For the sake of this story—or, well, the entire series—John does still have his blog, but he does not have a photo of himself on it. Anyone could be reading it with no reason to connect Dr John Watson with John Brandon, Earl of Undershaw.)


	7. Chapter 7

John couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. It was an elegantly laid trap, he could admit, but that was no excuse for the fact that he'd stupidly walked right into it.

He looked over at the man who had let him from the house. "I don't suppose you'll tell me where we're going?"

The other man just shook his head and John just nodded and leaned his head back. Thirty-eight years old, heir to an Earl his whole life, and he'd never once been abducted until he'd met Sherlock Holmes. Bullet in his shoulder notwithstanding, he was convinced his life was more dangerous now than it had been when he was in the army.

There was only one reason he could think of for being here, and that was because there was a bomb jacket in his size waiting somewhere … and unlike the innocent civilians who had been used before, he was guessing that Sherlock's flatmate wouldn't be as lucky as they had been.

No, Moriarty was going to use him as an example, and had kidnapped him right out of his own house to make it happen.

He wondered if Moriarty knew it was his house. Because, seriously, there were only four people who would know enough to connect John Watson with the Earl of Undershaw—the two Holmes brothers, his solicitor and, apparently, his butler. He trusted them all implicitly. (Or, well, maybe he didn't exactly trust Mycroft Holmes, but he didn't believe he would have revealed his identity to a mad bomber.)

Had he been followed? He honestly couldn't remember seeing any tails but he hadn't really been looking, either. Stupid. Some soldier he was. No wonder Sherlock was finding him all but useless these days. If he survived this he would be better off slinking into his spacious townhouse and focusing on the plush and boring life of a 21st century Earl. If he was going to be this stupid, this blind, he had no business putting himself at risk—not when his efforts weren't being appreciated, anyway.

He was so lost in his thoughts, he hadn't even tried to pay attention to where they were going—and with the dark tinted windows, it would have been pointless anyway. He didn't carry a map of London in his head like Sherlock did.

He didn't miss the signal his two seatmates exchanged, though, and braced himself for whatever was going to come—and was only a little relieved when it was nothing worse than a bag being thrust over his head and a pair of cuffs being clamped on his wrists. "Just keeping you honest, doc," the man on his left said. "I know you fancy yourself a soldier, but you're no good to us hurt."

Fancy himself a soldier, indeed, thought John with a huff as he wondered at the smell. He _was_ a soldier, thank you very much, and a damned good one, right up until that bullet had shattered his shoulder. He may have been attached to the medical corps, but that didn't mean he couldn't fight.

He was smart enough to recognize a disadvantage, though. Three against one, if you included the driver, with him blind in a moving car … No, he would be better off waiting until they arrived and making his move then, if possible. The mystery bomber playing with Sherlock had been remarkably thorough up until now, though. He rather suspected the possibility of his fighting had back had already been taken into consideration.

In fact, when the car pulled to a halt, there was no opportunity at all. He was pulled out of the car by the larger man and thrust forward, with one man gripping each of his arms as he was pushed along. Off balance, he could barely keep his footing, but the men were both taller than he and were almost carrying him since his feet only touched the ground about every third step. The angle was killing his shoulder, too, and for a brief moment, he could think of little else. In fact, he could barely think at all.

And then it was too late, of course. He was being pushed down into a metal chair and could feel his legs being cuffed (shackled?) to it and then a rope came down hard around his chest, securing him to the back of the chair. It was only then that the bag was removed from his head and he was able to identify the scent that had been plaguing him—an aerosol anaesthetic coating the inside of the bag—just enough to make him fuzzy and docile without knocking him out. It was clever, he thought grudgingly as the non-narcotic air cleared his head.

Which was when he realized he could smell chlorine. A pool? Like where Carl Powers died, bringing the five pips full circle?

God, he was so stupid for walking right into this! If he got Sherlock killed tonight, he would never forgive himself.

A door behind him opened and a light baritone asked, "So, what does Sherlock's little pet have to do with the Earl of Undershaw?"

Still feeling foggy, John blinked at the well-dressed man in front of him, trying to figure out the riddle, and then he realized. The man wasn't trying to make some clever comment about John's secret identity. He was asking a legitimate question, and so John said, "House call?"

"Without a bag, Dr Watson?" the first man asked after a while.

"I left it when your men came for me," John said. "I don't carry a medkit with me everywhere … though, really, I should maybe rethink that. Sharing a flat with Sherlock obviously isn't the safest place to be … I assume that's why I'm here?"

He tried not to grimace as the other man let an expression of surprise spread across his face. "Why, you _are_ clever, aren't you, doctor? Yes, Sherlock has done so well, I thought he might like something _special_ for the final pip. You don't mind, do you?"

John's mouth was dry as he replied, "Mind being turned into an IED? Why should I? It seems very fashionable these days; everyone's doing it."

"Is that why you were visiting the Earl of Undershaw's empty house? Trying to be fashionable? Come now, John, don't be shy. I know he's out of the country—I checked. So what were you doing there?"

"I've known the cook for years and just stopped by to visit. If I'd known I was going to be seeing you, I would have saved you some of her scones. They're excellent."

Moriarty was nodding, an exaggerated look of understanding on his face. "Of course, and Sherlock hasn't given you much chance to eat lately, has he? Two birds with one stone … or is it three birds? Is she pretty, Johnny boy? Will she last longer than your other girlfriends?"

Thinking of Mrs McTavish, John tried not to let himself get distracted by _that_ image. He tried not to think about how this man knew about his pathetic dating history, either, though he supposed that would change once he fully stepped into his role as Earl. If nothing else, the possibility of a title would encourage women to stick around a little longer, wouldn't it? Not be scared off quite so easily as they had been?

"She knew my mother, Mr Moriarty. I can't say I've ever given her looks any consideration."

"Oh? Pity." Jim pouted a bit and then said, "But you don't know the Earl, then? It wasn't a secret meeting?"

"If it were, it certainly wasn't very secret," John said, "But no. He wasn't there before I arrived and didn't come in after me. It was just me, the cook, and the butler, and when they were kind enough to invite me to stay for dinner, I took them up on it. I'm sorry if it interfered with your schedule. Though I should thank you for the well-mannered abduction… I'm just as glad not to traumatize them just because this was the one day I stopped to visit."

Moriarty waved an airy hand. "Think nothing of it. It was your company we wanted, after all, though I confess I don't see what Sherlock sees in you."

John didn't have an answer for that and so he just sat quietly while the other man stared at him, wondering what he saw. He tried to look as harmless as possible (not hard while chained to a chair), but really, he was thinking about how—even though this situation was clearly outside his control—he was not, in fact, powerless. An Earl might not have the kind of chop-off-his-head power they had in the twelfth century, but still, there was no question that having a title made things move a little easier, a little more efficiently. John might not be the wealthiest peer, and he may be currently so out of touch as (luckily) to be actually obscure, but still, if he were to start throwing his weight around … well, his family and his title still had connections.

Not in crime-fighting, though, or in government administration. Not outside John's personal efforts in the army and with Sherlock Holmes, at least. He didn't have any infrastructure that could do anything about Jim Moriarty. Right now, that seemed like an egregious oversight. If only he had invested in special ops forces, or had a link to some kind of law enforcement group.

Well, it would give him something to do if he got out of here, at least. In the meantime, maybe Mycroft would alert Sherlock that there had been a change in his evening plans. At least Sherlock wouldn't walk in blind.

John just wished he didn't feel like a liability … again.

#

It got boring, after that.

Moriarty had wandered off at some point, hissing threats into his phone as John got stiffer and more tired the longer he sat bound to the chair. There wasn't much to look at. It was a standard changing cubicle with a curtain and basic seat. Someone was assembling a drying rack, though, just outside the door, a pile of wooden dowels and tools stashed under the bench. John tried not to look longingly at the screwdriver as the time dragged on.

Really, he wondered what kind of difference a really motivated Earl could do towards cracking down on criminal masterminds. Certainly, his ancient ancestor, the first Earl of Undershaw, wouldn't have put up with this nonsense. From the stories John had absorbed as a child, his boyhood hero would never have simply walked calmly away with an enemy. That Earl had fought alongside Richard Lionheart and was likely rolling over in his grave at how thin the blood had gotten over the centuries—John's army service or not.

Of course, the first Earl would have been armed with a wicked, 6-foot sword, too, while John had only had his mobile. He wondered if Mycroft had acted on the text he'd sent, if he would be advertent enough to intercept Sherlock before he walked into Moriarty's trap.

Maybe he should start carrying a sword. God knew he'd played at it enough as a child, pretending to be that long-gone John, fighting in battles for his country. If he had a sword, maybe he would be able to keep trouble away from Sherlock for five minutes. He still wouldn't be able to cut through these cuffs, though. He wondered if his ancestor had been taller than he was, strong enough to break out of regulation handcuffs, maybe? It was hard to tell from the one likeness back at Undershaw, since portraiture in the eleventh century wasn't quite up to modern standards of accuracy. And 5'7" was probably considered tall then.

Christ, what had that bag been dipped in? If he wanted to be of any use here at all, he needed to get this fog out of his head.

But he was out of time as his friends from the car were back, this time with a vest smelling of all-too-much of chemicals and death that brought him right back to Afghanistan. Leaving his feet cuffed to the chair, they untied and uncuffed him, pulling him to his feet and keeping him steady as they carefully threaded his arms through the vest. They checked the wires and then added a parka better suited for the arctic than a humid London swimming pool. When they were done, they sat him back down and then stepped back.

John looked down at the blinking lights on his chest and swallowed, trying not to think too much about the after-effects he'd seen to vests just like these. The smell in his nose was bad enough to send him spiralling toward an attack of PTSD from the weight of the memories alone.

But no. The first Earl of Undershaw would be appalled if his descendant let himself succumb to something as ephemeral as fears in his own brain. No. John would force himself to be alert and to watch for a chance, any chance, to bring this ridiculous game to an end. He had survived Afghanistan and being nearly killed on an all-too regular basis for years. He lived with Sherlock Holmes, damn it. He was not going to let himself get beaten by an Irish psychopath, no matter how well dressed. It simply wasn't going to happen.

And so John drew in a deep breath and forced himself to that quiet place that let him focus on whatever task was at hand, no matter how much gunfire or hell stood in his way.

#


	8. Chapter 8

Nothing tonight was going according to plan, thought John an hour later.

Or, at least, not _his_ plan. Moriarty's plan, on the other hand, was going fine.

Sherlock had arrived promptly at midnight and John had been forced to go through with the charade of being Moriarty's mouthpiece, all while trying to warn off his flatmate. And, really, what was Sherlock thinking, arranging this meeting in the first place?

John couldn't decide if it was more reassuring or terrifying that Sherlock had brought his gun along.

Then, Sherlock did not take advantage when John grabbed Moriarty from the back, yelling at Sherlock to run. Because, no, that would have been practical, the rational decision. The bomb was going to go off eventually, it was obvious. Wasn't it better that only one of them die? And better still if they could bring Moriarty with them?

But no, the two idiots were having too much fun taunting each other … though John thought he'd seen a flicker in Sherlock's face that said he wasn't enjoying himself anymore. He supposed it was flattering that Sherlock assigned more weight to John's life than he had to the faceless strangers of the earlier rounds.

The circling and threats had come to an end, though, and Moriarty had left with an airy "No you won't," in reply to Sherlock's "Catch you later." John was finally able to breathe without the smell of explosives in his nose and now was leaning against the dressing room, trying to keep his balance against the sliver of wall, crouched over the pieces of half-assembled drying rack. "People will talk," he told Sherlock, trying to lighten the moment as the idiot rubbed the back of his head with a loaded gun.

For a minute, he thought they were going to be all right.

And then the sniper sights were back and Moriarty was gloating, "I'm so changeable!" as he strolled toward them.

The tension that had barely started to diffuse was back, heavier and thicker than ever and John was more sure than ever that the entire building was going to explode. He watched Sherlock aiming his gun at the explosives and supposed there were worse ways to go, than taking out a criminal mastermind with them.

But then there was a rustle of sound from the gallery above and the red sights on Sherlock's chest blinked out. John looked down at himself and saw that his were gone as well. Mycroft, he wondered?

He saw the change in Moriarty's face as he saw his advantage disappear, and then the man was pulling out his own gun and stalking right toward Sherlock, his face enraged.

He was going to shoot him, John thought, absolutely sure of it. Every line in the man's body, in his face, broadcast his intention, and there was no argument, no logic that would convince him otherwise.

Moving on instinct, hoping he had time before any bullets were fired, John snatched up one of the wooden dowels from the floor beside him and—in a move that would have made his long-ago fencing master proud—lunged forward.

The strike was perfect, the old muscle memory recalling exactly how to balance the stick for an accurate hit with the tip. "_Fencing is not whacking_," old Mr Samson had instructed. "_It's all about accuracy and angles. The more precise your stroke, the more accurate you will be. Brute force will never win, you need finesse_."

Hours of practice as a child (not to mention singlestick training and the whole fighting with the army thing), had left John with a fair skill with an epee and, unshaped and unbalanced as this wooden dowel was, in the end it didn't matter. The bare flick of his wrist made the stick hit Moriarty's hand just hard enough to make him drop the gun as John extended in as perfect a lunge as he could manage from his half-crouch on the floor.

As Moriarty turned his enraged eyes his way, John brought his back foot up from his lunge and stood, end of the stick steady at the other man's throat. The dowel might not have a sharp tip, but John was in the perfect position to stop any threatening moves the man might make. Even as he found his balance, though, he heard pounding footsteps coming toward them and, as a wave of Mycroft's men flooded the room, Moriarty abandoned his bravado and dove through the changing room.

As much as John wanted to chase after him, to cudgel him with the stick in his hand, his knees had other ideas. Fighting their sudden weakness, he stepped back toward the sliver of wall that had supported him before, he let his arm fall, dropping the dowel back into its pile as several men passed between him and Sherlock in a blur as they pursued Moriarty. John, though, just let his eyes close. That had been too damned _close_.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Are you all right?" The note of concern in Sherlock's voice was even more frantic than earlier.

"Yeah," John said. "Just tired. I really don't want any more surprises tonight."

Which was why he just groaned as he heard, "That was impressive, Dr Watson," from the far end of the pool as Mycroft strolled in. "I didn't know they taught fencing in the RAMC these days."

"Not specifically, though even medical personnel know basic self-defence. But no, not much call for actual fencing. That was earlier—my father insisted that, if I was going to run around the garden pretending to have sword fights, I should do it properly."

"Your precision was admirable. It's just a pity you were dragged into a situation that caused you to need it."

Just like that, the air was tense and jagged again as Sherlock bristled at his brother's words. "Well, there's no reasoning with a madman, is there?" John asked as he opened his eyes. "Moriarty wanted me to be the fifth pip. He wasn't going to let anything stop him—even to having his men kidnap me right from the house in Belgravia."

"It was lucky you had time to send that text," Mycroft said, "Or we might not have been here in time."

"You texted _Mycroft_?" Sherlock spat out, sounding betrayed.

"The car showed up at my house saying Mr Holmes needed me," John explained. "While I was getting my coat, I sent Mycroft a text asking where we were going this time. I thought you were in trouble, so texting you wouldn't have done me any good."

"Whereas alerting me did quite a bit of good. I sent one of my men to the house to find out what had happened and your butler—you should really let him know you're all right—said you'd been enticed away by someone saying you were needed in regards to the fifth pip. Obviously, I knew that meant you were in trouble. That in conjunction with Sherlock's website… Well, as I say. It was fortunate."

"Except now Moriarty knows about John's … heritage," Sherlock said. "That could be … bad."

But John was shaking his head. "He doesn't. Or, I don't think he does. From what I gathered, they just followed me there and thought I was visiting. He made cracks about making house calls and asked what I wanted with the Earl of Undershaw's house when the man is out of the country. I told him the cook had known my mother—which is true—and that I was visiting, which was also true." He couldn't keep the grin from spreading across his face. "He's going to be so mad at himself when he realizes."

#

Later, after they had accepted a ride home to 221B (at John's insistence), John collapsed into his chair. "I thought when I left Afghanistan that I could stop worrying about IEDs," he said.

Sherlock had sat in his chair opposite, but with none of the casual sprawl he'd had earlier. "John, I… I didn't mean…"

"It's okay, Sherlock. It wasn't your fault," John told him. "I was the one stupid enough to walk right into a trap." Because, really, he wasn't going to stop beating himself up for that any time soon, he thought. He could only imagine what his CO would have said about it were John still in the army. You don't leave a secure location without back-up … or weapons. About the best that could be said was that he had gotten that text out to Mycroft before leaving the house so he knew they were in trouble.

He rubbed at his forehead, as if he could massage some sense into it, as if it would help understand the sheer insanity of the night. How had his taking one step toward his family responsibilities ended with him wearing a bomb?

"Nevertheless, the trap would not have been laid were it not for my involvement," Sherlock was saying, in as close to an apology as John had heard from the man. "That you then tried to save my life … I don't know what to say."

"It's not your fault you were targeted by a madman, Sherlock. I'm just sorry I made it worse."

"Worse?" John looked up, surprised at the strangled tone to Sherlock's voice. "John, you were almost killed tonight—several times—because of me. The fault may lie at Moriarty's feet, but not only were you at risk, but you saved my life with your frankly unexpected fencing skills. Believe me, you helped keep things from escalating because … you were right. The … game … was inappropriate."

John wondered if he'd gone into shock without noticing. "Yeah, well, it wasn't your game. You didn't ask to play, and you weren't the one who blithely got into the stupid car."

He winced at the self-loathing in his voice, bracing himself for whatever acerbic comment Sherlock was about to make, and was therefore surprised when his friend said, "No, I'm the one who set up the meeting on my _website_."

And just like that, for the first time in days, they were laughing. For a moment, it was as if the days of self-doubt had never happened. "Yeah," John finally said, catching his breath, "Next time you should check with me first so I can clear my schedule, make sure my butler won't be traumatized. Good help is hard to find, you know."

Sherlock sobered abruptly. "I do, in fact, know that, John. I don't want you to think that … your efforts are not appreciated. I … may have gotten caught up in … and let you feel as if your input was not helpful…"

The apology—assuming that's what it was—was so entertainingly awkward, John thought about letting Sherlock stumble on, but he was just too tired and held up his hand. "It's fine, Sherlock."

"I never intended you to be involved, John."

John huffed out a breath. "Because you didn't want me at risk or because you didn't want me spoiling your game?"

"Both," Sherlock said with an annoying look that was like a parody of sincerity. "I never thought you would be at risk."

John wasn't sure which part of that statement he was more annoyed at. He didn't want to get into another fight about the existence of heroes or the poor judgement of letting yourself get swept into a game of puzzles with a madman who wrapped his pieces in explosives. He just wanted to appreciate the fact that he was here in one piece, rather than sprayed through that chlorine-scented air as red mist. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair. When had he been this tired?

"You're still unhappy with me," Sherlock's voice came through the buzzing fatigue in John's ears.

"I was a human IED earlier, Sherlock," he said, voice crisp. "There's nothing about that scenario that makes me happy."

"It wasn't my fault, John."

"I know that, Sherlock," John said. "In fact, I already acknowledged that. That doesn't mean I'm happy that it happened. I'm just not blaming you for it."

"No, but…"

John heaved a sigh and opened his eyes to glare at his flatmate. "Sherlock, leave it. I'm not an idiot. I understand how it happened and … I chose to be here. Remember that first night? I told you I was torn between wanting to move in with you and needing to deal with my family responsibilities—but I wanted _this_. I might not have expected a mad bomber, but that doesn't make a difference. If I can be here, be useful, I'll do whatever I can to make it happen."

He watched the relief settle into Sherlock's face and continued, "I want to be here, but you also need to remember that I don't _have_ to be here. I'm not trying to make ends meet on my army pension and I have a perfectly good house with an excellent cook not all that far away. I'm not going to let a consulting criminal drive me away, but, Sherlock, if I feel like I'm not … contributing … if I feel unneeded …" He let his voice trail off, the unspoken "_unwanted, unappreciated_" hanging in the air.

If he hadn't been watching so closely, he wouldn't have seen the way Sherlock's face crumpled, the merest twitch at the corners of his eyes, the tiniest flinch. "You are," he said in a small voice.

"Then we don't have a problem," John said. "Except for that I'm exhausted and need to call my _butler_ so he can get some sleep tonight, too. We're fine, all right? I'll see you in the morning."

And knowing that Sherlock was constitutionally unable to let anything go without in-depth analysis, he stood and left the room.

#


	9. Chapter 9

John slept in the next morning. It had taken him longer to fall asleep than he liked, and his sleep had been broken by nightmares—not surprising, really, but it left him feeling wan and foggy when he dragged himself out of bed after 10:00.

He had just stumbled out of the bathroom, hair still wet from the shower, when he heard Mrs Hudson's voice downstairs at the door. "I'm sorry, but I simply can't take packages for the boys anymore. I was quite clear about that after what happened the last time."

"I've read the blog," came the muffled, familiar voice, "And I do understand. It's just that … Dr Watson … wasn't able to finish his dinner last night and I thought he'd appreciate the leftovers as roast beef sandwiches for today's lunch."

Oh, crap, thought John as he rushed for the stairs. "Mrs McTavish? What are you doing here?"

"You know this woman, John?" Mrs Hudson asked, turning around in surprise.

"Yes, yes, I do. This is…" He froze there. What was he supposed to say? He couldn't lie to Mrs Hudson outright, not about this, but was this really the time to tell her about his … what did Sherlock call it? His family business. "This is Mrs McTavish," he finally managed. "She was my father's cook, and his father's before him. Mrs McTavish, this is Mrs Hudson, the most patient landlady in the world."

The two women nodded each other, and John could almost hear them wondering whose scones were better. (It was close, but he'd vote for Mrs Hudson's. Mrs McTavish would always have the best mince pies, though.) They all stood awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, then John said, "It was nice of you to bring the sandwiches, but truly not necessary."

"It seemed the thing to do," Mrs McTavish said, a noticeable gap where she censored the 'my lord' from her sentence. "Now that I know where you live, it seems only right…"

Oh, God, he could see it now. She would be trundling over here at all hours with hampers of food, and how was he supposed to deal with that? Once she saw the flat upstairs, she'd be here cleaning and Stoker would be here answering the door and ... just, no. "Don't be silly," he told her, his voice as quelling as possible. "I mean, this is very nice of you, but…"

"John, dear," Mrs Hudson said, voice gently hinting, "Why don't you show her up? Or at least take the basket?"

Oh. Right. Of course. He reached for the handle, but she just held it out of the way. "No, my … er … no, thank you. I can carry it. I'm not infirm, you know."

"But…"

"Really, John, this is unlike you. Why don't you invite her up?"

And there was Sherlock, adding to the fun, thought John as he sighed and gave into the inevitable. "I'll explain later," he promised Mrs Hudson before heading up the stairs.

He couldn't decide whether he should be amused or horrified at the expression on Mrs McTavish's face as she witnessed the chaos that was 221B for the first time. She was one of the kindest souls ever, but her surface personality was all prickle and a sense of humour had never been one of her strong points. As she looked at the cow skull on the wall sporting headphones and the Cluedo game pinioned to the wall, he could almost see her wanting to reach out and drag him safely away.

It didn't help that Sherlock was standing there watching, eyes gleaming. John sometimes wondered how much of 221B's chaos was authentic mess and how much of it served as a kind of litmus test for visitors, amusing Sherlock with their reactions.

"Well, this is … different," she said. "The, er, wallpaper is quite … interesting."

Behind her, John could see Mrs Hudson bristling on the stairs. "Yes, thank you, Mrs McTavish. We like it. I am sorry I wasn't able to stay for dinner last night, but you really didn't need to bring this."

"But it's my job, my… er … doctor."

John sighed and glanced at Mrs Hudson, who was now not only looking offended, but hurt. "Her job, John?"

"Indirectly, I suppose," John said, mentally reminding himself not to slouch, feeling like he was ten years old again. "She's been the family cook for years, and seems to have suddenly decided to carry her efforts to Baker Street … which was _not_ my idea."

Mrs Hudson tilted her head. "I can't say you boys couldn't use someone looking after you, the amount of take-away you eat. Not to mention that kitchen you won't let me clean."

"Now, Mrs Hudson, you know that's for your own benefit. You know what Sherlock gets up to in there, and we always appreciate the scones and tea you bring us. As to Mrs McTavish, this was thoughtful, but will _not_ become a habit, isn't that so?"

"Yes, my l… er … doctor."

John glanced over at Sherlock, who was barely containing his amusement. "You're not helping at all."

"I'm not trying to, John," Sherlock said, "I think it's quite wonderful that you've got two lovely ladies fighting over who gets to cook for you."

"Us, Sherlock," John corrected, spotting the hint of worry. "And you know you're Mrs Hudson's favourite." He met his friend's eyes, trying to convey the point from last night—he didn't plan on going anywhere.

"Now, John…"

He held up a hand. "You needn't protest, Mrs Hudson. It's okay. You're his favourite, too. I have Mrs McTavish."

Just then, the bell rang and before he could head for the stairs, Mrs Hudson had already left the doorway to answer it. She really was too good to them, he thought, and then froze as he heard a familiar voice. "Mrs McTavish," he said, voice calm, "How did you get here today?"

"Stoker drove me, of course," she said as Sherlock practically collapsed into his chair with delight at the scene. "You don't think I could have handled that hamper on the Tube, do you?"

"No, of course not," John said weakly as Mrs Hudson ushered his butler up the stairs. "Hello, Stoker."

"Good morning, Dr Watson," Stoker said calmly. "I apologize for the delay, but it took some time to find a parking spot."

"I always worry when you two double-team me. Should I be concerned? Or is this just a reaction to last night? Because I didn't mean to worry you."

"Oh, no, sir. I was just trying to make sure McTavish stayed out of trouble. She was insistent on coming over."

Mrs McTavish leaned over to hit him on the arm. "You were just as anxious as I was, the way he was abducted from our very doorstep last night—and you not doing a thing to stop it."

"Abducted?" Mrs Hudson queried faintly.

John gave her a sharp look. "As you can see, we're fine, Mrs Hudson." He looked around Stoker and, seeing her suddenly pale face, wrapped an arm around her and led her over to his chair. "It was just, well, the final round of that bomber's game. It's over now. We're fine."

"What? Both of you?"

He hated the quaver in her voice. "We were both there, yes, and we didn't get back in until late. I didn't want to worry you at that time of night and hadn't had a chance to tell you." He sent a glare to his erstwhile employees.

"I am sorry, doctor," Stoker said, voice formal, "I did not mean to upset this kind woman. As you say, though, McTavish and I were worried. Even though you called last night … I confess we both wanted to see you were all right."

"Of course you did," John said with a sigh. "And you stop laughing over there. I could get your over-protective brother over here, too, you know."

"Oh, John, that's a terrible idea," Sherlock said, unable to keep the grin from his face. "He would find this even more amusing than I. He wouldn't help at all."

"No, probably not," said John, tightening his lips. "All right, fine. Let's have some introductions. Mrs McTavish, Stoker, you've met the wonderful Mrs Hudson, the city's most kind and patient landlady. The prat in the chair is my flatmate and friend, Sherlock Holmes. Mrs Hudson, Sherlock, this is Mrs McTavish and Stoker—my cook and my butler."

"Butler?" Mrs Hudson echoed.

John turned to her with a nod. It was best to get this over with, right? "I haven't been entirely honest with you, Mrs Hudson. While I am a retired army surgeon, I have another title as well—one that's been in the family for generations." He placed a hand over his heart and gave a small bow. "John Hamish Watson Brandon, Earl of Undershaw, at your service."

If anything, she looked even fainter now. "Earl?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," he told her, eyeing the colour of her skin with concern. "Sherlock, get her a glass of water would you?"

Stoker was already on his way, though, and John spared a glance to watch his reaction to their unorthodox kitchen before turning back to his landlady. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but there was no reason until now. Here, sip this." As she sipped the water, he gave a brief explanation about his return to London but not being ready to take up his responsibilities. "Then I met Sherlock and started helping him, so, well … it just hasn't come up before. I just picked an unfortunate night to visit my house is all."

She looked up at him, knuckles white from gripping the glass. "You have a house?"

He smiled at her. "Of course I do, where else would Stoker and Mrs McTavish live while I was gallivanting around the world in the army? Though really, it was my grandfather's house, and then my father's until he died. It hasn't been mine for that long." He took the glass from her and leaned forward as her fingers gripped his, saying quietly, "I've never lived there, you know. Just visited. It's never felt as much like home as 221B does."

John glanced over to see the look of satisfaction on Sherlock's face, the faintly disgruntled shock on Mrs McTavish's. There was a reason he'd wanted to keep his lives separate, he thought, lots of them, even if they had never been particularly good ones. The last thing he had expected, though, was that the people in both parts of his life would be possessive of him. Of him!

"But … all this time? You've had your own _house_?"

"I'm afraid so. It's much too grand for me after years in the army, though. I didn't hold the title when I joined, you know. It was still my grandfather's house, then. I only saw it for visits. Then my father took over, but it still was only a house I visited—I didn't really have a _home_. And then he died unexpectedly and it came to me so suddenly, just before I got shot and, well … it was too much, too soon. I wasn't ready. So I let Sherlock talk me into a flatshare and found a home here with the two of you. It was only last night that I found out that my cook and my butler have been reading my blog and knew I was in London all this time."

Sherlock let out a bark of laughter. "Then you only have yourself to blame for this mess, John."

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm aware," John said. "If I'd known, I might have taken advantage of Mrs McTavish's cooking sooner—but then Moriarty would have seen and put the pieces together, wouldn't he?"

"Luckily for you, we're discreet, my lord," said Mrs McTavish. "If Benton knew, he'd be outside with the car at all hours. The man never has understood the need for discretion."

"Driver?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh, God," murmured John, nodding as he thought about how obvious his grandfather's driver could be. If he knew John was in London, he would be stalking John more resolutely than Mycroft ever had.

"Could be convenient."

"No, Sherlock. We're not going to have my grandfather's car sitting on Baker Street waiting to give us a ride. Talk about drawing attention."

"True," said Sherlock, "Unless he were driving a cab dedicated to our use."

"You mean _my_ use," corrected John, "And still no. Absolutely not. If you're not happy taking normal cabs, you can use the Tube like everybody else—or ask your brother."

He grinned as Sherlock grimaced, and then turned back to their visitors. "Really, though, you two can't make a habit of coming here—not even with food, Mrs McTavish."

"Who else am I going to cook for, my lord? Stoker, here? My skills are going to waste, and it's not like you're off in some heathen country any longer. You're right here in London where you belong—or almost. It seems wrong for me to continue drawing my salary if I can't at least provide care packages."

John sighed. He knew from long experience that trying to win an argument with Mrs McTavish was almost impossible, and he had no illusions that having ascended to the title and being her titular boss would make any difference this time. "Maybe we can work something out."

#

Now that his two households knew about each other, John found himself shuttling back and forth more often—and bringing food home with him more often than not. Sherlock had also set Mrs McTavish up with his Homeless Network so that, at regular intervals, they would transport meals disguised as take-away to 221B—and receive generous portions for themselves as part of the payment. (If Mrs McTavish complained about being a glorified soup kitchen, John just reminded her that she had been the one complaining about not having enough work to do.)

John tried not to worry about Moriarty—easy enough, because he had other things to worry about. Now that his cousin David _and_ his household staff knew he was in London, he was going to have to come clean and let people know he was here. It was time.

He was staying at Baker Street, though. Most of the time, at least. Since he was picking up his duties, he was going to have to spend a certain amount of time at his house (not to mention at Undershaw itself), but he was determined to stay at 221B. For now, he would treat his townhouse as an office with convenient sleeping quarters if things ran late.

After the Pool, Sherlock had been on his best behaviour, which had frankly spooked John a bit. (Sherlock had actually bought milk. Twice.) But as soon as he realized that John _wanted_ to be there, things had relaxed back to where they were. Sherlock was occasionally a little more thoughtful than he might have been, but otherwise, things were much the same. That might change a bit once John "came out" as Earl, but the foundation which had been undermined by Moriarty was solid once more.

There was just one more thing John needed to do…

#


	10. Chapter 10

Detective Inspector Lestrade looked around the crowded room and wondered why he was there.

When the Chief Superintendent had called him to his office to tell him about the new anti-crime initiative, he had been surprised—and sceptical, to tell the truth. He spent his days out on the streets, not in conference rooms. It was his job as a DI in the Serious Crimes Division, after all. He knew what kind of things people would do to each other and no new initiative, whatever it might be, was going to change that any time soon. The best they could hope for was a faster turnover rate in cases solved—nothing was ever going to prevent people being horrible to one another.

He supposed it was flattering, though, that he was being included. A little extra publicity—especially _good_ publicity—certainly never hurt the Yard. It would be good for people to see that New Scotland Yard was devoted to finding new ways of preventing and solving crimes, and if some high muckety-muck wanted to back it with his own money? Even better. He could sit through a boring meeting or two for the good of the team.

He sipped at his tea as he scanned the room, looking for familiar faces, and caught a glimpse of a familiar profile. Was that…?

"Hi, Greg," came a friendly voice at his shoulder.

"John," he said, surprised. "I didn't expect you. Was that Sherlock I just saw?"

"Yeah," John said with a grin. "I told him he couldn't constantly complain about the ineptitude of the police force if he wasn't willing to do something to make them better. Basically, he's here under duress, but … he's here."

"He doesn't exactly seem the meeting and committee type," said Greg, eyeing Sherlock's aristocratic demeanour as he stood in the corner and scowled.

"God, no, can you imagine? He'll probably never come to another one of these, but at least this way he's got somewhere to direct some of his … suggestions."

"He's never had trouble directing them before," Greg said with a laugh, glancing at John. "You're looking sharp today. I don't think I've ever seen you in a suit before."

John shrugged. "It seemed more appropriate than my uniform. I'd rather be wearing jeans, but there'll probably be photos later and I didn't want to embarrass myself."

Greg smiled, wondering if John was expecting some kind of group photo, like for a class from school, but he didn't say anything. John was a good bloke and he didn't want to discourage him. "So, Sherlock dragged you along, then?"

"It was more a mutual thing," said John, glancing up at him with a sudden keenness to his gaze. "What do you know about this program, anyway?"

"That some lord or other has decided to get involved in crime-fighting for God knows what reason," said Greg, stifling a sigh. "He's launching this program to, I don't know, fund investigations or something. Throwing some of his own personal fortune at the more baffling puzzles, the weird ones that take that extra man-power and time to solve. I suppose it's not surprising that Sherlock's involved, come to think of it. It's just the sort of thing he'd love…"

His voice trailed off. It really was right up Sherlock's alley, wasn't it? Digging into the more complicated mysteries were exactly his cup of tea, and … how had he never considered? … Sherlock obviously came from money. Look at the suits he wore, that coat of his. His accent, too, spoke loudly (often piercingly) of higher echelon schooling and class. He wondered if the earl behind all of this was related to Sherlock. When was Sherlock's birthday, anyway?

Donovan wandered over then, giving a curt nod to John. "When is this going to start," she griped, "I've got mountains of paperwork on my desk."

"Being here is an honour and a privilege, Donovan," Greg told her firmly. "And if I have to put up with it, so do you."

"Some privilege," she said with a sniff, "Working even more with the Freak. I assume that's why you're here, Watson?"

Before John could answer, though, the Chief Superintendent had stepped up to the podium and was calling for attention. Greg was surprised when John started edging his way through the crowd, but supposed he wanted a better view. It was easy to forget sometimes that he wasn't a tall man.

"Thank you all for coming," Greg's boss was saying, "And welcome to the launch of the Undershaw Initiative. As you all know too well, despite our best efforts, we are sometimes confronted with crimes that are complex and unwieldy. Crimes that take more resources than we can reasonably commit to their solution. It is those crimes that this Initiative is here to address. But you hear from me every day. This, you should hear from the man himself."

Greg clapped politely as the people near the front of the room shifted, and almost held his breath as he saw Sherlock's familiar head nearing the podium. No, that wasn't possible. He had an older brother, didn't he? He couldn't be the Earl … could he? But no, the superintendent was talking about the earl's dedication to the public good as seen through his army service, and how his interest had only been piqued since he'd returned home from the war.

Huh. He wondered if the Earl's path had ever crossed John's … and then all but fell over as the Chief Superintendent stepped aside and John Watson himself stepped up to the microphone.

"Hello," he said with his polite smile, appearing to enjoy the stunned silence. "I already know some of you, but I don't think we've been properly introduced. My name is John Hamish Watson Brandon, and yes, I'm the Earl of Undershaw."

Greg gaped at the man, totally blindsided. John? John _Watson_ was an Earl? He glanced at Donovan and was only a little relieved to see that she looked even more stunned than he felt. He could see Sherlock at the front of the room, hands folded behind him as he smirked at the shocked faces—mentally berating all of them for not being more observant, no doubt.

After allowing a moment for the news to sink in, John continued, "Like I said, I know some of you already, because as Chief Superintendent Filch said, I've taken an interest in crime-solving—not least because I share a flat with Sherlock Holmes. It was a bit of serendipity, I think. I've spent the last fifteen years serving in Her Majesty's army in the RAMC as a surgeon, and have seen a lot of suffering—not all of it caused by armies or terrorists, either. I don't think I ever quite realized how many of the same crimes, the same atrocities were happening here at home—not until I began helping Sherlock and New Scotland Yard with some of their cases."

"I've seen quite clearly that the men and women who solve crimes are smart and dedicated to the greater good," Greg heard a small snort from Sherlock's direction. "Like all of us, though, they get overwhelmed. There are too many cases, too many crimes. Some may be fairly straight-forward, but the more complicated ones, the connected ones … well, they often take more resources, more time than the case-load permits, which brings us to the Undershaw Initiative."

Greg was listening intently, now. Knowing the lord behind all of this was John Watson—a man he'd grown to respect—made a difference. This wasn't just some titled duffer trying to find ways to spend his time and money, like a society matron doing Good Works. This was a man who had quite literally been down in the trenches, risking his life for the greater good. He couldn't disagree with John's assessment, either. The complicated ones did take time away from the easy ones, and Greg had often been frustrated when a case was shut down when he could almost feel the solution was right there, in reach, but their resources were needed elsewhere.

It had been one of the reasons he'd welcomed Sherlock onto his crime scenes in the first place—the man's love of puzzles and his attention to detail had helped put some of those complicated ones to rest quickly and efficiently. He was only one man, though, so a new initiative that would throw some money and resources at the hard-to-solve cases? It would be a relief, frankly, because Greg was in this line of work in the first place to bring closure and solutions to those beset with sudden, violent, life-tearing crime.

The fact that it was John Watson behind all of it … somehow, that just made it feel like it would work rather than fade out like other do-gooding programs had in the past. John Watson (John Brandon?) was a man who stuck to his commitments.

John had finished speaking now, and Greg joined in the applause with more enthusiasm this time and then turned to face Donovan. "What just happened?" she asked.

"John Watson just gave us advanced crime solving on a silver platter," he said numbly.

"That's the Earl of Undershaw to you," came Sherlock's familiar baritone, faintly teasing. "Do close your mouth, Donovan. You look like a landed fish."

"You knew about this, Freak?" Donovan demanded.

"About John's estimable initiative for defeating crime? Of course. Though before you ask, no, I did not put him up to it. It was entirely his idea."

"No, I mean, the Earl thing. You knew?"

He tipped his head, cocking one eyebrow. "Not at first, no. He was flying under the radar there at the beginning."

"Under the radar?" Greg repeated, "How can an Earl fly under the radar?"

"Using your mother's maiden name helps," John said as he stepped toward the group. "I needed time to … decompress … from the army before taking up my duties. I didn't tell anyone I was back in London. Skype is very useful, you know?" He glanced back at the crowd by the podium. "How'd I do, anyway? It's been a long time since I spoke in public."

"You were quite adequate, John," Sherlock said just as Donovan blurted out, "You're an Earl? For real?"

John sighed. "If I wasn't, do you think I'd announce it to a room of law-enforcement officials? But yes, Sally, the title goes all the way back to the first Earl—also a John—who sailed across with Richard Lionheart. My father died while I was still in Afghanistan, but I was determined to finish out my tour, so I dealt with my responsibilities remotely. When I came back … well, I just didn't tell anyone I was home early, not until I found my feet."

"Anyway … it went well, John. Or, er, how should I address you now?"

"John is fine, Greg. Titles have their place, but I don't like being my-lorded any more than I need to hear myself addressed as 'doctor' all the time. But, good. I was nervous."

"I thought you didn't have any family, though? Other than your sister?"

John shrugged. "Oh, there's family, believe me. They just ... well, they didn't know I was in the army, and I was walking with a cane and all … I didn't quite know how to tell them, so … like Sherlock said. Under the radar."

"They know now though, right?" asked Greg, picturing legions of cousins finding out John's past when they opened their morning paper tomorrow to see his picture as he launched the Undershaw Initiative. He could only imagine the firestorm that would follow _that_ revelation.

To his relief, though, John nodded. "I bumped into my cousin David a couple weeks ago, and I've been going to the house often enough that, yeah, I came clean. They were all horrified to learn I'd been in the army for almost two decades without any of them noticing. Sherlock was appalled at their lack of observation. The annual Christmas party is going to be … interesting." He grinned up at his flatmate.

"Wait," said Sally. "You have a _house_? In London? And … you moved in with _him_?"

"By 'him' you mean Sherlock? Why, yes, Sally. I did. I know it's a shock that I'd want to spend time with my best friend, but there it is." His lips tightened as he let his eyes skim past her, dismissing her.

"Right. So, what made you do this, John?" Greg asked him. "I mean, it almost sounds like you're making one of Sherlock's dreams come true, but that can't be it. I can't believe you'd want to draw attention to yourself like this just to make Sherlock happy."

Sherlock smirked again. "Very good, Lestrade. So why is he?"

Greg looked at John, whose face was suddenly stolid, as if braced for calamity. "I don't … something … Something happened didn't it? What was it?"

There was a pause as John's jaw clenched, as if he were trying to decide whether to say something. Finally, he just said, "Fifth pip," but it was enough to make Greg freeze for one long moment as Donovan started beside him.

"Christ, I told you to take up fishing, didn't I?" she said.

John turned a glare on her. "It wasn't Sherlock's fault, Donovan, and it all turned out right in the end. Just … it made me think that making sure our crime-solvers have more resources for actually stopping that sort of thing wouldn't be a bad idea, and so here we are. It seems to me that if we spent less time sniping at one another, maybe _some_ of us would be open to new ideas and get things done a little more efficiently. You know, Donovan, you're a good officer, but you let your own prejudices get in the way. I know you and Sherlock don't get along, and he gives as good as he gets—because you _do_, Sherlock—but maybe he's got something he could teach you about observing things? And maybe he'd learn better how to deal with people professionally if you gave him some professional courtesy in the first place? I've spent years in the military, and believe me, I know about childish behaviour. But I also understand the value of being a team."

"Fifteen years in the army, and you're an Earl," Greg said. "That still doesn't make sense, John."

"What? The peerage isn't allowed to serve?" John asked with a small grin.

"Sure, but aren't they usually sitting safely behind desks? Not out where they can get shot … Christ, you're an Earl and you were _shot_. Do the papers know?"

John blinked. "God, I hope not. Talk about bringing the attention to the wrong detail! And it's not like it's the first time. My great-great-grandfather was killed in World War I, after all, and the Brandons have been serving the military since, well, centuries. I just opted to use a different name, is all. I figured I could get more done if I kept a low profile.

"Not low enough, if you got shot," Sherlock said, teasing. (Sherlock, _teasing_?)

"I was on a convoy that came under attack," John corrected him. "It's not like I was out on the front lines. And I was treating an injured soldier when the bullet hit—that was more important than ducking."

"I wouldn't say that, exactly…"

"Leave it, Sherlock. Just be grateful it sent me home early to bump into Mike, yeah? The important thing is that it's a dangerous world, no matter where you are—or where you work. I just want to give the good guys a better chance, is all."

Greg watched, amused, as the two bantered, and then saw John's eyes widen. He turned to look over his shoulder and almost laughed. It seemed like all the officers from the NSY were pressed up against the glass wall, goggling in John's direction. "I think the news has spread," he told John. "No more secret identity."

"It was inevitable, I suppose. My only regret is not getting to see Anderson's face when he heard the news." He clapped Greg on the shoulder and said, "Right, well there are people I should probably be talking to. We weren't really planning on an intermission at this stage, but Sherlock insisted that the news of my, er, secret identity would need time to sink in. But just a few minutes more, I think. We've got work to do."

Greg watched as he faded into the crowd, thinking about John's heritage, his military past, his work with Sherlock—and, Christ, _John_ was the fifth pip? He hoped he'd hear that story someday, but in the meantime, he nodded at Donovan. "Exactly. Work to do, right?"

She was staring after John, watching as he slipped in next to the high muckety mucks near the podium as if he belonged there. Her eyes were wide as she obviously worked to reclassify the army doctor in her head. "Right, boss," was all she said, but Greg knew as well as she did—this was a whole, new ballgame.

#

THE END


End file.
